







































































































































































































































































































Class_ ^ V. ' _ 

Book_i£i_ 

Copyright N °. s . 




















I 























■ 








John Ruskin’s Letters to Francesca 

and 

Memoirs of the Alexanders 





























' 





















































































































































































































*5 


/A 


vit M A-A ^ 4 


*) 


f,j- 


wf / '***-*W ^ 

1 / h\^±A'iCi+*, 







John Ruskin’s 
Letters to Francesca 

and 

Memoirs of the Alexanders 


By 

LUCIA GRAY SWETT 


WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

WILLIAM CLYDE De VANE, Jb., 

of Yale University 


/ 

Illustrated from Drawings by- 
Francesca Alexander, and Paintings 
by Francis Alexander, and from Photographs 



If 

) 



fcfV'f 


BOSTON 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 













Copyright, 1931, 

By Mary C. Swett 

Copyright in Great Britain, the British Dominions and Possessions 


All rights reserved 


John Ruskin’s Letters to Francesca 

AND 

Memoirs of the Alexanders 



% 


Printed in U.S.A. 


©tl» 13 " 92 - ~ 

ocr -e B3i j 




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For their kindness in permitting the publica¬ 
tion of some of the letters included in this 
volume, our most grateful thanks are tendered 
to Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, Dr. Theo¬ 
dore Jewett Eastman, Mrs. Joseph G. Thorp, 
Mr. Richard H. Dana, Mrs. Laurin Martin, Mr. 
Greenleaf Whittier Picard, Mr. P. T. Sherman, 
Dr. Robert Means Lawrence, Mrs. Charles B. 
Perkins, and Mr. Malcolm Donald. 

We particularly wish to acknowledge the co¬ 
operation of our cousins, the Misses Charlotte 
and Emily Hallowell, in their contribution of the 
sketch of Sir Walter Scott, their share of the 
John Ruskin letters, and other valuable material. 

To Professor William Clyde De Vane, Jr., 
especial appreciation is due for his kind interest 
and valuable suggestions. 

Lucia Gray Swett. 

Mary C. Swett. 



INTRODUCTION 


The distance from Beacon Hill to Val d’Amo, 
or to Abetone in “the blue mountains be¬ 
hind Pistoia,” is one hardly to be measured in 
miles. In the “fifties” of the last century, when 
the Alexanders left America for Florence in 
search of health for Mr. Alexander, assuredly 
Florence was as near as it ever had been to 
the Anglo-Saxon world. Willing and unwill¬ 
ing exiles from America and England, though 
hardly typical representatives of the lands they 
had left, continued to congregate in Florence 
and Rome, and later in Venice. Yet these exiles 
did not become Italian, or perhaps in most cases 
even Italianate. Milton, in his Italian travels of 
some two centuries earlier, was fond of inscrib¬ 
ing an Horatian epigram in the registers of the 
places he visited,—an epigram which is com¬ 
pounded in part of national pride,— Caelum, non 
animum, mutant qui trans mare currunt. The 
Alexanders, as one may see from Francesca’s 
vivid letters to America, succeeded rather better 
than most in identifying themselves with the life 
of their adopted country. 

In the three decades of the Alexanders’ resi¬ 
dence in Italy before John Ruskin visited them 
in 1882 , a very considerable number of eminent 

7 


8 INTRODUCTION 

men had come into their lives. The Memoir of 
Francesca is liberally strewn with such names as 
Frederick Tennyson, the elder brother of the 
Laureate; James Russell Lowell, who paid a 
visit to the Alexanders and wrote a sonnet to 
Francesca; John Greenleaf Whittier, whose let¬ 
ters make some of the brightest passages in the 
galaxy of the Memoir; and then, to make an end, 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Richard H. Dana, Sir 
Frederick Leighton, Sarah Orne Jewett, Car¬ 
dinal Manning, and General Sherman. But 
these are only a few of the great who came into 
the lives of the Alexanders. They met the King 
of Italy, and they met Garibaldi, the unacknowl¬ 
edged king; they were friends of numerous Ital¬ 
ian nobles, and of Cardinals Agostini and Ca- 
nossa. The comings and goings of these men and 
women are so charmingly revealed in the Memoir 
that they need not be dwelt upon here. 

Yet none of these, loved as some of them were, 
made the impression upon the lives of Francesca 
and her mother that J ohn Ruskin made when he 
visited them in Florence on the 8th of October, 
1882. The distance from Ruskin’s London to the 
hospitable home of the Alexanders in Florence 
is likewise one that is not to be measured in 
miles. The foreign tour which Ruskin began in 
August of 1882, and which was to restore happi¬ 
ness for a while to his life, was also taken in 
search of health. 

In December of 1880 Ruskin had suffered his 


INTRODUCTION 


9 


second attack of brain-fever,—“ terrific delir¬ 
ium” as he called it,—and it was not until 
March 24th that he was able to explain to his 
friend Charles Eliot Norton that he had taken 
“another bite or two of Nebuchadnezzar’s bitter 
grass.” On the 29th of March he wrote to Dr. 
John Brown, “Both these illnesses have been 
part of one and the same constant thought, far 
out of sight to the people about me, and, of 
course, getting more and more separated from 
me as they go on in the ways of the modern 
world, and I go back to live with my father and 
my mother and my nurse, and one more,—all 
waiting for me in the Land of the Leal.” 

The year 1881 was disastrous. Carlyle, his old 
master, died on February 4th, and this brought 
to Ruskin a feeling of unutterable loneliness. 
Early in 1882 his delirium overwhelmed him 
again. After a long, slow convalescence he set 
out for the Alps and Italy with his friend Col- 
lingwood. Professor Norton gives us a vivid 
and touching picture of Ruskin as he appeared 
at this time: 

“ I had left him in 1873 a man in vigorous mid¬ 
dle life, young for his years, erect in figure, alert 
in action, full of vitality, with smooth face and 
untired eyes. I found him an old man, with look 
even older than his years, with bent form, with 
the beard of a patriarch, with the habitual expres¬ 
sion of weariness, with the general air and gait of 
age. But there were all the old affection and ten¬ 
derness; the worn look readily gave way to the 


10 INTRODUCTION 

old animation, the delightful smile quickly kindled 
into full warmth; occasionally the unconquerable 
youthfulness of temperament reasserted itself with 
entire control of manner and expression, and there 
were hours when the old gaiety of mood took 
possession of him with its irresistible charm.” 

Many causes had conspired to make Ruskin 
old before his time. Not the least of these was 

\ 

persistent overwork. There was no cure for 
that, for work itself was an escape from things 
which would have hurt him more. There was the 
tragedy of his life, his love for Rose La Touche. 
She had died in May 1875, after Ruskin had been 
living for eight years in a state of hope deferred. 
The touching confessions which he was later to 
make in his letters to Francesca show that time, 
which had wrought such havoc upon Ruskin, was 
at long last beginning to heal his wounds. He 
can find pleasure again in the recollection of 
Rose and his own sorrow. Even the bitterness 
towards Rose’s parents has almost passed away. 
But the struggle had scored his spirit, and the 
victory was not lightly won. 

Again, the dreadful events of May 1875 had 
darkened his religious faith and plunged him 
into a wayward spirit of rationalism and doubt. 
The Bible of Amiens, and his other writings as 
well, show him, after 1880, gradually winning his 
way to his final faith,—a simple understanding 
and submission to the ways of God, and a belief 
in the goodness of men. It was in this condition 


INTRODUCTION 


11 


of imperfect convalescence in body, heart, and 
spirit that John Ruskin entered Florence in 
October, 1882, and on the 8th of that month was 
introduced by his friend H. R. Newman, an 
American artist, to Francesca Alexander. 

The perfectly integrated life, character, and 
art of Miss Alexander came to Ruskin as a reve¬ 
lation from Heaven. It was medicinal,—restor¬ 
ative. In Miss Alexander’s charity, her faithful 
art, and in her pictures of the simple faith and 
good, happy lives of her Tuscan peasants, Rus¬ 
kin saw all that he needed for his own health hi 
spirit, mind and body. He saw there the history 
of “the innocent and invincible peasant life,” 
“under all sorrow, the force of virtue; over all 
ruin, the restoring Charity of God.” Her work 
meant to Ruskin not only a beautiful and expres¬ 
sive art, reminiscent to him of good things he 
had praised in the methods of the Pre-Raphael¬ 
ites, but a vivid representation of the purposes 
of God. 

Watts, the painter and fellow idealist of 
Ruskin, admired Miss Alexander’s work, and 
said that he would rather have drawn the face 
of the Madonnina than almost any work that he 
had done. But surely the tribute she would most 
have appreciated came from Ruskin. On the 
11th of October he wrote in his diary, “I never 
knew such vivid goodness and innocence in any 
living creatures as in this Mrs. and Miss Alex¬ 
ander.” 


12 


INTRODUCTION 


The coming of this “very pleasant, elderly 
gentleman with a kind face and a fine voice and 
very simple friendly manners’’ had a sudden, 
humorous, and sometimes exasperating effect 
upon the quiet Alexander household. The Mem¬ 
oir has described admirably how Francesca 
became famous overnight, and how her drawing¬ 
room was overrun by curious visitors. The 
moral and artistic dictator of England had 
singled her out for praise, and thenceforth the 
simplicity of Francesca’s world was in grave 
danger of being destroyed. But Francesca char¬ 
acteristically took the gold, which was Ruskin’s 
friendship, and let the dross go its own way. 

So with the discovery of Miss Alexander and 
her drawing, the recovery of his faith and his 
health, and the gradual healing of the old 
wounds of his heart which time was effecting, it 
is little wonder that the tour of 1882 was re¬ 
garded by Ruskin as an immense success. 

On his return to England in the next year he 
set about blazoning abroad in gratitude and en¬ 
thusiasm his discovery of “the fine gold which 
has been strangely trusted to me, and which be¬ 
fore was a treasure hid in a mountain field in 
Tuscany.” At Oxford as Slade Professor of 
Fine Arts in 1883 he spoke of and exhibited Miss 
Alexander’s book, The Story of Ida, which he 
had bought from her and obtained permission to 
print. On the 5th of June he gave a private lec¬ 
ture in London, mainly upon her work. Pro- 


INTRODUCTION 13 

fessor Oliver Elton heard Buskin's lectures at 
Oxford, and describes them admirably: 

“ I heard these addresses: the voice comes back 
to the mind’s ear, with its singular wailing qual¬ 
ity, which seemed to the young imagination like 
that of a wondering and saddened angel, full of 
quite woeful, open-eyed, inexpugnable surprise 
that the incorrigible world of men should be what 
it is, and yet never ashamed of itself." 

In this same year Ruskin edited, with a 
preface by himself, Miss Alexander's book, The 
Story of Ida; in 1885 he published her Roadside 
Songs of Tuscany; and in 1887 Christ’s Folk in 
the Apennine. He continued to encourage her, 
advise her, and care for her, as the letters be¬ 
tween them show, until his overtaxed brain gave 
way entirely. 

Yet one must not entertain the idea that this 
was a one-sided friendship. Ruskin was able to 
introduce her to his complex and mighty world, 
but through the seven years after their meeting 
he leaned upon the simple strength and faith of 
Erancesca many times, renewing there his own 
strength and faith. The confidences he made 
concerning his Rose and their lost love, and the 
quick and ready sympathy he found, were both 
good for him. The reader will find in the follow¬ 
ing correspondence the history of the friendship 
of these two spirits, and how they helped each 
other. If one were inclined to inspect accounts 
between friends, as happily one is not, one might 


14 


INTRODUCTION 


observe, in these delightful letters, that John 
Ruskin is in spiritual debt to Francesca Alex¬ 
ander. 

So Ruskin continued his busy and useful life 
until the shadows descended upon him in 1889. 
As long as he could write, he wrote to Francesca 
and her mother, and long after received letters 
from them. In 1888, as his illness approached 
again, he thought that another trip to Italy and 
Francesca would rejuvenate him as it had done 
six years before. He went to the Alexanders 
in Bassano, and again they were 4 ‘ among the 
kindest people in the world. ” But the old magic 
would not work, for his illness was too far ad¬ 
vanced. In 1889 Ruskin retired to Brantwood 
and the eleven years’ silence began. 

William Clyde De Vane. 

New Haven, 

April 8, 1930 . 


CONTENTS 


Introduction by Wm. Clyde De Vane, Jr. 

PART I 

John Ruskin’s Letters to Francesca 

PART II 

Introduction to Part II . 

Memoirs of the Alexanders 


page 

7 


21 


. 207 
. 211 


15 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

I 


John Ruskin 

Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

Lucia Gray Swett (Mrs. Francis Alexander) . 32 

Francesca Alexander . 

• • • 

• 

104 

Madonna and Child . 

• • • 

• 

152 

Francis Alexander 

Frontispiece to Part II 

Sir Walter Scott . 

• • • 

• 

212 

Francesca When a Child 

• • • 

• 

216 

Eliza Tennyson . 

• • • 

• 

236 

A Contadina at the Well 

• • • 

• 

268 

A Contadina and Her Child 

• • • 

• 

284 

Hall of the Palazzo Rezzonico at Bassano in 
Veneto. 

the 

• 

314 

Cardinal Canossa. 

• • • 

• 

340 

A Little Italian Friend 

• • • 

• 

390 


17 


















PART I 


JOHN RUSKIN’S LETTERS 







/ 



John Ruskin’s Letters to 
Francesca 


IN her letters Francesca Alexander tells the 
story of her friendship with John Ruskin and 
what it meant to her and to her work. To Mr. 
Ruskin, his friendship with the Alexanders 
meant the restoration of his religious faith lost 
long before. After his first meeting with them, 
he wrote in his diary, “ I never knew such vivid 
goodness and innocence in any living creatures, 
as in this Mrs. and Miss Alexander.’’ 1 Mr. Rus¬ 
kin was extremely fond of Mrs. Alexander, 
whom he called his “Mammina” and was much 
influenced by her. In a letter dated December 
22, 1886, he writes, “I have taken you so faith¬ 
fully and truly for Mammina that I would never 
do anything you forbade, any more than I would 
against my dead Mother’s will.” 

The following letters do not form a complete 
correspondence, as only a limited number of 
Francesca’s letters were available, and a great 
many of Mr. Ruskin’s letters were destroyed in 
Florence. We have, however, a sufficient num¬ 
ber to form the record of a very beautiful friend¬ 
ship and we feel that this record should be pre¬ 
served. 

i The Life of John Buskin, E. T. Cook, Vol. II, page 464. 

21 


22 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

Mr. Ruskin’s first letter is in reference to his 
purchase of Francesca’s large book, Roadside 
Songs of Tuscany, which she considered the 
chief work of her life. An edition of this was 
published in England under the original title; 
a much more beautiful edition was published in 
America under the title of Tuscan Songs . 


THE DRAWINGS 


23 


Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“ Florence, October 9th, 1882. 
Dear Mrs. Alexander: 

I Ve taken a new pen—it is all I can!—I 
wish I could learn an entirely new writing from 
some pretty hem of an angel’s robe, to tell you 
with what happy and reverent admiration I saw 
your daughter’s drawings yesterday;—reverent, 
not only of a quite heavenly gift of genius in a 
kind I had never before seen,—but also of the 
entirely sweet and loving spirit which animated 
and sanctified the work, and the serenity which 
it expressed in the surest faiths and best pur¬ 
poses of life. 

(It thunders as I write, as if all the fiends of 
the air were trying to hinder me from saying 
what is in my heart.) 

In absolute skill of drawing, and perception of 
all that is loveliest in human creatures—and in 
the flowers that live for them—I think these 
works are in their kind unrivalled, and that they 
do indeed represent certain elements of feeling 
and power peculiar to this age in which we are 
entering on new dispensations of thought and 


24 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


hope; good for me to see especially, because I 
have hitherto been brought into collision with all 
its evil, and have been much cast out from the 
knowledge of its good. 

The earlier thunder of the morning kept me 
awake to some good purpose, for it gave me time 
to think over all these things in their relation to 
my work in England; and I came to the con¬ 
clusion that I might, for the service of our Eng¬ 
lish peasantry, be mean enough to take Miss 
Alexander at her frank word as to the price of 
the book. I will give six hundred guineas for it, 
with more than pleasure, if at that price I may 
be permitted to place it in the St. George’s 
Museum, but in order to insure its perfect use¬ 
fulness there, I am going to pray Miss Alexander 
to write—by way of introduction to it—such 
brief sketches as she may find easy of arrange¬ 
ment of the real people whose portraits are 
given. What you and she told me in the little 
time of looking over it would be almost enough; 
but one of my chief objects in obtaining the book 
will be the conveying to the mind of our English 
peasantry (not to say princes) some sympathetic 
conception of the reality of the sweet soul of 
Catholic Italy. 

I am going to ask Mr. Newman 1 to intercede 
with you and with Miss Alexander for me in all 


1 Mr, Henry R. Newman, an American artist who lived for many 
years in Italy. Mr. Ruskin was an enthusiastic admirer of Mr. New¬ 
man’s water colors, and several of his paintings hung in Mr. Rus¬ 
kin ’s home. 


A REQUEST 25 

these matters—one more—quite personal favour 
—I scarcely like to ask but yet will venture— 
that I might see Miss Alexander draw a little bit 
of a flower. I have really no conception how that 
work can be done, and am the more personally 
interested in it, because it is the glorification and 
perfection of a method once recommended in my 
elements of drawing—and afterwards rejected 
as too difficult. 

If this might be, or indeed whether it may be 
or not!—I trust to be permitted to wait upon 
you both once more—before leaving Florence. 
Mr. Newman will tell me your pleasure and your 
time; and so I remain, my dear Mrs. (and Miss) 
Alexander, your grateful and faithful servant, 

John Ruskin.” 

“ Herne Hill, 

December 9th, 1882. 

Dear Mrs. Alexander: 

I have never felt the least cheerful since I 
left Florence, and I think you would be sorry for 
me—so sorry that it would be a shame to tell 
you—if you knew how woeful I am today in the 
fog and cold and far-away separateness from 
St. Maria Novella. 

But I got home safe from harm in travelling, 
and lectured last Monday once more; and I have 
put my little room in order and I am set quietly 
to my routine work again till Christmas; but one 
piece of work will be quite other than routine. 






26 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


I brought Fanny’s story of Ida home in my own 
desk, and now I am watching over the copying 
of it out for the printer and it will be done to¬ 
morrow or the day after, and then I ghall write 
my little preface to it, and have all ready to go 
to press the moment after the Christmas holi¬ 
days are over. On Tuesday, I am going to take 
the drawing of the last sunset to be photo¬ 
graphed—and to consult upon with an engraver. 
I hope to get it engraved, in some degree worth¬ 
ily, for the frontispiece. I could do nothing in 
this last week, I was tired and sad, but the reac¬ 
tion is, I hope, now to come, and all the good of 
your kindness to me will tell otherwise than in 
despondencies. 

The pretty books are all safe beside me, except 
the large one which I will come for; it is better 
not to risk its arrest. 

The drawings of Ida are—I need not say— 
admired, and with amazement, by all to whom I 
allow sight of them. But I am jealous of show¬ 
ing them and perhaps may finally print the little 
book without the picture. It is like a trespass on 
her peace to show it—and yet—and yet ... !” 

“London, S. E. 

Christmas 1882. Evening. 
Dear Mrs. Alexander: 

There is no one like you—no one—among 
all my friends, and I have many—and many 
sweet ones, and some who love me very much, but 



APPRECIATION 27 

I have never yet known anything like the flowing 
river of kindness, deep and soft and swift all at 
once, that you have unsealed for me. Your letter 
of a few days since was quite the most beautiful 
I have ever received, and today—just as you had 
wished and planned—came the precious card and 
letter (it’s most precious of all) and the exqui¬ 
site missal leaves and the orange blossoms. It 
had travelled perfectly. All the sprays of it were 
beautiful. Only a few leaves had fallen, which 
strewed the chambers with sweetness. And the 
white queen of the Alps—and the messages from 
friends—and Fanny’s friends—how many they 
must be!—and Fanny’s own love to add to them. 

And all that I can do is to keep my last good¬ 
night on this Christmas of my sixty-third year 
for you—and to tell you that your daughter and 
you have made it a brighter day to me than it 
ever was, but one, before—and not only brighter 
but more deeply felt and understood. You have 
interpreted more of Christianity to me than I 
had learned of all my teachers, even of the hills 
and sky. 

I cannot write more tonight—except only that 
I determined, on the permission implied in your 
last letter, to have the drawing of Ida engraved 
and it was undertaken by one of our best en¬ 
gravers in line, with true admiration of it. It 
was put into his hands as soon as I received his 
letter and will be ready, I hope, for Easter. . . . 

John Ruskin.” 



28 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 
Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Herne Hill, 

Sunday, May 13th, 1883. 

Darling Francesca: 

I have opened your book 1 today in my old 
nursery, where I found it—waiting for me. 

I have no words to tell you how precious it is 
to me; but if I am spared in strength to complete 
my work in Oxford this Spring, you will soon 
know how precious it is to become to uncount¬ 
able multitudes. The songs will not be forgot¬ 
ten nor will these Italians pass away. They will 
not all be taken to Heaven—yet. Their song 
shall still be heard in the springtime of their 
native land. 

Of course—as a book, in its present form—it 
cannot and must not be seen. How you could 
ever manage to show it safely in your own room, 
I cannot think—but suppose Heaven took care 
of it—I must not tempt the protection, but shall 
instantly order frames for the main drawings 
and cabinets for the whole, out of which separate 
pages may be shown on different days. The 
story of Ida will be out just after the Whitsun 
Holidays, and after it has begun to be read, I 
shall make this book known at Oxford. 

Your lovely account of the peasants is safe 
also here, by good Miss Lloyd’s care, and I am 
for the present too much bewildered by the 


i Eoadside Songs of Tuscany. 





BEATRICE 29 

beauty of it all to write more than that I am ever 
your Mother’s and your 

devoted Servant and Figlio and Fratello, 

J. Ruskin. 

I will write Mamma about the other things 
directly, but can’t today, my head’s so full of 
this, and my heart.” 


“Heme Hill, 

June 1st, 1883. 

Darling Francesca: 

I have got the Oxford lectures done; and 
the impression made by the sight of your draw¬ 
ings there has been both deep and universal— 
but it is only begun; and I am now writing some 
more intimate expression of my feeling about 
them, to be read next week—Tuesday, to my own 
personal friends in London. 

I could not say in Oxford the half of what I 
did feel—nor can I rightly or enough say it, even 
to my friends, but I hope what little I can say 
will be enough when I have your beautiful pieces 
of history to read with it,—especially that of 
Beatrice—supplementing the preface, and I am 
certain that your mother and you both will re¬ 
joice in hearing of the good—beyond all that you 
could hope or conceive—which this book will do, 
to the best and wisest. 

I get the loveliest letters about Ida, and will 
soon gather together some of them, and give you 
account of sayings and praisings and thankings. 





30 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


This poor note is only to thank you especially 
for your last letter, and to say how much my 
mind is relieved by knowing that you are pleased 
with the book of Ida. 

Of course, whatever profits come of it belong 
to you,—or belong to Ida, as you will,—you know 
me better than to think I would keep any por¬ 
tion of them myself—that va sans dire —yet it is 
time to say it- 

All kinds of love—and measures of it—to that 
dear Mother of yours. 

Ever your devoted Fratello (is there such a 
word?). 

And of course the drawings. You little goose, 
to think they could be kept or shown gummed 
back to back! 

4th June. The reason Mamma’s message was 
never answered was that before leaving Brant- 
wood I had two guests in the house, and the sick 
child of one—and nobody to help me—and all 
arrangements at Oxford to make—and my own 
mind to keep in order, and I put Mamma’s letter 
by, to be read when your closing benediction, 
'Restate in Pace / should be possible. 

Tomorrow I lecture to my own friends only, 
in the drawing-room of a very precious one. 
Nearly everybody who cares for me much is com¬ 
ing—old and young—the one I care for most is 
Mr. George Ridmond’s grandchild, Iona, and 
she, I believe, of all there, will most care for the 







HILL FOLK 


31 


part of the lecture 1 which will be best—the read¬ 
ing of the stories of Beatrice, Angelo, Isabella, 
Paolina, Lucia, and Edwige, out of your white 
and red book. Do you know, I never took that 
out of its cover till the day before yesterday!— 
how can I thank you for it all ? 

Dearest love to la Madre. 

Ever your poor Frate 

J. R.” 


“University Galleries, Oxford, 
June 10th, 1883. 

Darling Sorella: 

I’ve been so excited with dwelling among 
your hill-folk, and talking of them, that I find 
myself—(the mam work done, now) a little cast 
down, and sick for Italy—yet doing more good 
here than I could there. 

I lectured on your book last Tuesday to all my 
best London friends and made them ever so 
happy, and now photographs are being made of 
the best (I mean, the principal) pages, and I 
hope soon to send you some results. Today I’m 
writing only to thank Mamma for a marvellous 


1 An account of this lecture was published in the London Spectator 
of June 9th, 1883. Mr. Ruskin began his lecture by saying, “I have 
never until today dared to call my friends and my neighbors to¬ 
gether to rejoice with me over any recovered good or rekindled hope. 
Both in fear and much thankfulness, I have done so now; yet not to 
tell you of any poor little piece of ungathered silver of my own, but 
to show you the fine gold which has been strangely trusted to me, 
and which before was a treasure hid in a mountain field of Tuscany; 
and I am not worthy to bring it to you, and I can’t say w T hat I feel 
about it, and am only going to tell you simply what it is and how 
it came into my hands., and to leave you to have your joy of it.” 


32 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

Hebrew scroll—marvellous and inestimable— 
but how can I stop her from this oppression of 
my free-hearted affection for her and you. 
Please make her stop now, for I don’t know 
what to do. 

But the thing chiefly on my mind is what you 
should do now with that glorious power. I no¬ 
tice that you are always strongest in the most 
difficult subjects and that in landscape you are 
still comparatively feeble unless it be a back¬ 
ground to Isabella or St. Christopher. 

I wish you would choose a rocky bit of near 
landscape, with just a child at a spring, or a 
woman carrying wood, or the like, for motive of 
interest—and draw it as you have done the Sa- 
maritana well—I want something for Oxford, to 
show what the abstract loveliness of rock and 
foliage is, and except an old study of my own in 

i 

lampblack, I’ve nothing that is not conventional 
and incomplete. 

Also, a little practice in pure landscape would 
be restful for you, and in some points of chiaro¬ 
scuro—good for you. 

Dearest and many and many loves to Mamma. 

Ever your loving Frate. 

—I’ve just been reading over again your letter 
about Ida, and of my doing so much for you. 
My dear, I do nothing for you—except love and 
honour you very much; it is you who do all for 
me—and I said simply to the London people that 
I was not worthy to have such a book to show 






Lucia Gray Swett 

(Mrs. Francis Alexander) 





























































































































LANDSCAPES 


33 


them. But it is nice that you like so much what 
IVe said about the two religions. ” 

From Mr. Ruskin’s first meeting with Mrs. Alex¬ 
ander and Francesca, he seemed charmed and fasci¬ 
nated with them. Very soon he had such an 
affectionate friendship for them that he called Aunt 
Lucia his Mammina and Francesca his Sorella. In the 
letter following, he reproaches Francesca for calling 
him Mr. Ruskin, and in all her subsequent letters she 
addresses him as Mio Caro Fratello. 

Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

# 

“Brantwood, June 22nd, 1883. 
Darling Mammina: 

No—I never will mind what that Sorella 
says any more—she calls me Mr. Ruskin!—and 
she frightened me quite dreadfully about you: 
all the same, tell her she’s to keep the Cardinal’s 
letter, of course—and I shall have some other 
pretty ones to send her soon, and say that I’m so 
delighted she’s going to do some landscape, but 
that I must have the Madonnina in the corner of 
it, or Paolina—or part of Lucia if she’s to be 
found easier. Only I’m afraid of the landscape 
(as such) giving her too much trouble, and she 
must be very sure that the entire field of the sub¬ 
ject taken in by her paper is pretty, so as not to 
lose labour on uninteresting forms. 

I think she has not yet quite done justice to 
Italian distances. I think a bit of Lucca would 
have been pretty behind Santa Zita, 1 and the 

1 Santa Zita, called the Protectress of Lucca. Plate LXVII, 
Tuscan Songs. 




34 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


view from her window which ends the preface is 
the only bit of interesting Italian building which 
she has given. It seems to me that her strength 
might be put, sometimes, on a piece of beautiful 
old architecture for a background, with great 
advantage. 

I don’t know what is to happen to me this year 
yet. Be sure how much I want to come to that 
little room. But my own work almost always 
determines the place I must be in. 

The lovely Hebrew Bible is behind me in my 
bookcase. I could not write of it before, for it 
was delayed at Euston house till I had gone to 
Oxford. It is enough to make me learn Hebrew 
in my old age. But the scroll is lovelier 


To Mrs. Alexander: 


“Brantwood, Coniston, 
Sunday, July 14th, 1883. 

Darling Mammie: 

I have your lovely long letter and exquisite 
short one; and am so very thankful and happy 
about all. Today’s account of the reading in the 
fir-grove! and—at Venice—the gondoliers at St. 
George!!—and all else. Please, I want you or 
Francesca—you most—to translate that number 
of St. Mark’s Rest into Italian, and I’ll print it 
and give to Signor Boni for distribution at 
Venice. 



EDWIGE’S ADVICE 


35 


And please tell me the story about silver Bible. 
And please send my love and congratulations to 
Mr. Newman on his marriage, and scold him for 
not having told me about it, and say that I never 
can write because I’ve so much to say—and send 
my love to Alessandro. 

I will do —not do, I mean—all you tell me, for 
you are entirely wise and right, as far as possi¬ 
ble. I cannot rest wholly—I get morbid and ill 
if I try to, and I am really well at present in 
carefully ordered work—of which I’ll tell you 
more soon. But the photographs must be got 
done, now, D. Y. 

Tell Francesca I would send her some counsel 
about her landscape if I dared interfere with the 
inspiration in her. Edwige’s advice (not to try 
to do as well as the good God) is also much to be 
taken to heart. 

Ever your lovingest figlio, 

J. R. 

I shall be so very thankful to you for translat¬ 
ing the Shrine.” 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, 
July 31st, 1883. 

Darling Sorella: 

You’re no end of a sweet, to know that 
I wasn’t changed, any more than you. It’s 
Mamma who makes mistakes now—I only didn’t 



36 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


send you any messages to tease you—I got the 
letter all right from Venice, and I should have 
written a lot before now, if I could really have 
helped you or told you of definite faults—but 
your only fault is not being quite yourself—you 
never come out completely except in the grandest 
subjects. 

There are faults, certainly, in the bits of land¬ 
scape, but they lie chiefly in not choosing a sub¬ 
ject pretty enough; and also you never study 
complete light and shade, with the lights small 
and the shadows broad; but this is not a style 
adapted for pen and ink. I must see this new 
landscape before I can say anything. 

Dearest love to Mamma—Ill write to her to¬ 
morrow, but please tell her I never got Mr. New¬ 
man’s letter announcing the marriage. 

The photographs are coming beautifully—far 
more successfully than I hoped—the Parlami 
bocca d’amore 1 has come quite marvellously. 
The enclosed is one of the poorest, but will show 
you the size they’re to be. 

Ever your loving fratello, 

J. Ruskin.” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
August 15th, 1883. 

Darling Sorella: 

I’ve been wanting to say so much about 
your drawings that are to be, and I’m always 

i The Soldier’s Love. Plate XXXIII, Tuscan Songs. 


SOME ADVICE 


37 


afraid of frightening or urging, or suggesting or 
confusing you, but this one thing I must say. 
Don’t engage yourself with the Century or any 
other magazine. They will merely treat you as 
a gold quartz and crush you and sift you and sell 
you. Don’t do anything for them—but draw 
whatever it comes into your soul to draw—and 
send the drawings regularly to me, while I’m in 
town this winter,—let me price them for you— 
and if I don’t do it better for you than the Cen¬ 
tury is like to do, you can go to it afterwards. 

I’m trying prints for the quarto text to go 
with the photographs and getting sets ready as 
fast as I can. 

Dearest love to Mamma. 

Ever your faithful fratello, 

J. R.” 


‘ 6 Brantwood, Coniston, 
August 25th, 1883. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

I am so very thankful for your lovely 
note, chiefly for that part of it which you could 
not go on writing. And I do think and trust 
that you will be happy in having me say things 
to you; happiest I in always having them said to 
me, and I’ll take the little rock hollow for seal 
and symbol of this seclusion of ours. 


38 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

The Isabella, 1 with her complete landscape, is 
the grandest piece of drawing, next to the Sa¬ 
maritan, 2 in the book. And I think you should 
never take commissions for vignetted subjects 
unless very small, as in an illuminated letter. I 
wonder whether some day it will come to you to 
do the Magdalene telling the disciples that she 
had seen the Lord! When next you go to Venice, 
I want you to fetch out somehow at S. Francesco 
in deserto, and draw St. Francis preaching to 
the birds with the distance he saw, and the birds 
that really came—mostly sea-gulls, I fancy. 

Dear love to Mamma. 

Ever your lovingest Fratello ” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
September 18th, 1883. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

I should like to be writing to you all day, 
but have been obliged to drop pen the instant my 
own work was done, lately, and your lovely last 
letter could only be cherished, not answered. 

This one, with the exquisitely happy story of 

1 The drawing of Isabella which Mr. Ruskin admires so much is 
Plate XCI of Tuscan Songs. The following is the translation of the 
little rispetto which accompanies this drawing: 

On Monday to a flower I do compare my love; 

On Tuesday to a rose new blown; 

On Wednesday to a lily tall and fair; 

On Thursday to a rare and precious stone; 

On Friday she’s like sunshine in the air; 

On Saturday her beauty stands alone, 

And when on Sunday in her face I gaze 

She’s fairer then than all the other days. 

2 La Samaritana is Plate LII of Tuscan Songs. 



THE PHOTOGRAPHS 


39 


Whittier’s letter and sonnet, must be answered 
the morning it reached me. They are more help¬ 
ful to me than you can conceive, for I am so 
dead-hearted just now in many ways and yet so 
active-handed, that any such words from a good 
man are water of life. But of the business in 
America I am not able to judge in the least. 
Only, as I wrote before, don’t engage to do any¬ 
thing yourself. Of course find copyright as far 
as possible. I am getting the photographs done 
as fast as I can, but we want a certain number to 
start with and it has not been possible for me yet 
to determine how much of the legends are to go 
with them. I will soon let you know now. 

Ever your lovingest Fratello, with all sorts of 
love and duty to la nostra Mammina . 

J. R.” 


Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Kenniwe Castle, Galloway, 
October 1st, 1883. 

Sweetest Mammie: 

I’ve just got your letter and Sorella’s, 
comforting me in all manner of ways, and full 
of sense and good counsel—only—you don’t 
quite think enough of the people who want me 
here—of whom some are, I hope, being taught 
how to take up my work when I must leave it— 
and indeed, though sometimes sad (and then I 
write to you for comfort), I am in many ways 



40 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


happy, just now, and as you could wish me to be, 
if you knew all. I can’t write much today,—but 
first tell Sorella how deeply I felt Edwige’s be¬ 
ginning to sing again—and that her landscape is 
done, and that her book is never work to me, but 
always help and life, and next—I am so glad the 
pansies came to you still coloured. The one you 
sent seal of is my favourite dark one which 
grows close under the house; the little one is our 
true wild pansy—Viola Psyche, Ophelia’s pansy 
of Proserpina. I had only one flower of it this 
year on all my ground, and that I sent you: but 
I know a cluster of it five miles down the lake, 
and will plant some, next year, where I think 
they will be happy, on my bit of moor. 

I hope to get home on the 3rd and then I shall 
have delightful times with Sorella’s book 1 —I’ve 
got type settled, and my own notions a little— 
but I’m a profane creature to have charge of 
such a thing. There’s a French play where a 
quite naughty Papa has an angel of a daughter 
come home to him from her convent—and he 
doesn’t in the least know how to behave! I feel 
so like him. 

Dear love to Sorella, and some of it to Edwige, 
and I’m ever your lovingest Figlio, 

J. R. 


Whittier’s lines are exquisite— 

But he must have been so good! and me’s bad.” 


1 The Roadside Songs of Tuscany. 





MORE ADVICE 41 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Lancashire, 
October 13th, 1883. 

Sweetest S or ella: 

How delightful it is to have you within 
reach again, instead of thinking one’s letters are 
to lie for a month in a bank, and then be a month 
more wandering in the mountains. I got yours 
about the landscape the day before yesterday, 
and now, with my heart in my mountains, I’m 
going to give you some advice. You felt that you 
missed the grace of the trees, though you never 
miss grace of expressional action. Your hands 
and feet are inexpressibly right and your stiff¬ 
ness even lovely in its severity. I send you a lit¬ 
tle present of photos from Turner. Don’t try to 
like them. They express primarily his intense 
melancholy, coming of want of religious faith 
(as all chiaroscuro work essentially does). But 
he loves light as much as you do. And these 
studies are to ascertain first before he worked 
for light what the shadows of the world were. 

I send you with them an old engraving of the 
fall, which is in your own terms of light and 
Turner’s translation of it into shade. I am cer¬ 
tain he saw the print and meant to show what 
the other side of things was. 

I want you to see and know this other side, and 
then to keep to your own, but chiefly to draw 
some trees, now and then, in Turner’s way— 


42 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


mere outline of them, and branches for the sake 
of their curves, filled in with sepia as fast as it 
can be blotted on, then the lights taken out where 
they should appear. 

I’m just leaving for Oxford and can’t write 
more. If these things frighten you and sadden 
you, send me them back, and I’ll send you a dif¬ 
ferent kind of thing. 

Dear love to that blessed Mammie, and much 
to Edwige. 

Ever your lovingest Fratello, 

J. R.” 


“London, 

October 23rd, 1883. 

Darling Sorella: 

I have two delicious notes of yours to 
return thanks for, besides all the enquiries for 
my lost one. I suppose I never wrote it on 
paper, and it was only written in my heart. I 
know it had a great many things in it I partic¬ 
ularly wanted Mamma to read. 

And I shall like to have the Lucca coin with 
this Volte Santo—and I daresay I shall like the 
cyclamens when they grow—if they do; but the 
things I want to always won’t. 

But I am so very very glad you like the 
Turner. There are three kinds: I. Photographs 
of the etchings by his own hand made on the 
plates before the mezzotint was put over the sur¬ 
face ; II. Photographs of various sepia sketches 



SKIES AND FLOWERS 


43 


and water drawings by Turner; III. One or two 
impressions of the real plates of Liber Sta- 
diorum. 

I have not robbed myself or my walls of any¬ 
thing. All these are store duplicates, kept to be 
given where they will be useful. 

Don’t for an instant think of altering your 
style, or way, of seeing things close to you. 

The portrait of Isabella is simply perfect— 
head, landscape, and all—but in your own style 
you may do more interesting things than the ave¬ 
nue background of Sta. Zita and you may greatly 
gain in general power of graceful composition by 
sketching sometimes in the Liber manner, and 
forcing yourself to be content with an outline, 
and a sepia wash more or less deep. 

I should like you also to make pencil notes of 
real skies, when beautiful, outlining the clouds 
rapidly, and writing their colours, and you 
should copy some Lippi or Botticelli flowers and 
leaves, in order to feel the force of rightly con¬ 
ventional grace, hi due measure. I don’t want 
you to conventionalize either the grass on my 
torrent-brooks or the weeds by the Samaritan’s 
well—but drawing the old ornamental forms will 
make you see beautiful things that you would 
otherwise have missed, and enable you more cer¬ 
tainly to grasp those you see. 

Conceive, for I cannot write, the pleasure I 
had in all you told me of Ida in America—and 
give all the love you can carry in your two eyes 



44 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

to Mamma. And give my true thanks to Edwige, 
and love me yourself all you can, and I’m ever 
your lovingest Fratello, 

J. R. 

Far away you don’t get enough—feel the mys¬ 
teries and influences of things—hence you are 
puzzled by distant hills.” 

Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, 
December 9th, 1883. 

Sweetest Mammie: 

How dreadfully difficult you make it for 
me not to open the box the moment it comes. 
What can be in it? I feel like Bassanio without 
a key! 

But I want to write you chiefly about that Fan 
of ours. It seems to me she’s frittering herself 
away and doing everything that everybody asks 
her—and I think she should make up her mind 
that as a rule whenever anybody asked her to do 
a thing—whatever she did she wouldn’t do that, 
—and I’m afraid she’s selling her drawings for 
half or a quarter of their value and being made 
a prey, and savoury morsel, and marrow bone of, 
by the wolfy multitude, and I want you to get 
hold of any drawing you like and send it to me 
here, with her price upon it, and let me judge. 

I’m quite well, as I said, and as the Doctor 
says—still colded a little, and of course at a dis- 


USEFUL WORK 


45 


advantage in not getting out; but I’m doing use¬ 
ful work, and clearly, to my own mind, in my 
duty here in the winter —to yon I must come in 
summer days, being 

Ever your dutiful and grateful 

Figlio. 

I’m quite well, really. Only a little sneezy and 
creaky.” 

i 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
January 31st, 1884. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

I have your last lovely letter about Suora 
Marrianna and Mammina’s following, and I’m 
packing up to go to town on Monday and give a 
lecture on Clouds, and my head’s full of nothing 
but clouds, and the sky outside’s made of them— 
raining fast—and I do hope I shall get your 
American couple with the Rispetti packed and 
sent. 

But you are such a little goose, Francie, to 
think there’s any trouble to me in this, or in edit¬ 
ing your stories, or in doing anything I can 
possibly do for you. It is an entirely new and 
powerful stimulus given to my life, and it helps 
me in all possible ways. 

But mind you have a good rest. Dearest love 
to Mammina. 

Ever your devoted 

Fratello” 


46 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

“ Herne Hill, 
February 25th. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

Tomorrow — and tomorrow! — You can 
never trust me unless I use my own motto. 
Today. 

. The stories have been safe here for a week— 
they are glorious and I’m wild about them—but 
forced to be externally tame, till I’ve done my 
cloud-lecture printing. 

. Write here, to say if you can, soon. I leave 
for Brantwood about 5th March, D. Y. 

Ever your lovingest 

Fratello” 

“ February 26th, 1884. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

I just got yours of the 22nd last night, 
after mine was gone. 

How can you let people tease or shake you. I 
am shaken by my own faults or by the cruelties 
of the Fates, but never by fool’s talk! Tell them 
sternly, to hold their peace—it needs the sorrow 
of a life to learn the things they mock at—the 
Strength of a noble Life, to do them. 

Follow your own heart’s instincts serenely, 
and attend only to the words of the poor. Every 
hour of my life I see the curse of 6 Money’ 
more distinctly. 

(N. B. I’ve just given £1000 for a diamond— 
pure natural crystal, untouched by tool,—129 



ART AND PEACE 


47 


carats weight.—This size and form. It is lent to 
British Museum and to be called St. George's 
Diamond.) 

I hope to give your answer about the main 
question of miracle in the preface to Sta. Zita, 
and more for St. Christopher. 1 

Ever your lovingest—gratefullest 

Fratello ” 

“ March 15th, 1884. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

I answer on the instant the part of your 
lovely letter about the harm of what people say. 
That is the only way the Evil Spirits can get at 
you, and you really must not let them come in 
at the door opened by your fratello . 

There is really nothing for it but the true, 
rational, useful-needful, indispensably cruel con¬ 
vent grate. You must live the Angelico and St. 
Francis life—in peace. You must simply let it 
be known that you need quiet, not praise; and 
close your door steadily against the Rich. As for 
selling either drawings or photographs—put it 
wholly out of your head. Do what you delight 
in doing, and let me and the people I can trust 
see to the selling. 

I think it would be well for you, till I can 
appoint an agent for everything, absolutely to 
decline sale, or talk of it. 

1 Tuscan Songs. Plates XXXVI, XXXVIII, XL, XLII, XLIV, 
XL VI. 


48 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

Dearest love to Mamma. Your devoted 

Fratello. 

Send me the Suora addressed to Brantwood as 
soon as you can, and never vex yourself about 
failure. How much more blessed to feel it, than 
to be happy in all we do, and wrong! ” 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
March 17th, 1884. 

Darling Sorella: 

I got home today at quarter past six from 
Hereford, where I had spent Sunday, and found 
your delicious letter with all its lovely and pen¬ 
sive talk to welcome me. How thankful I am 
that the cloud has passed and that you are happy 
and relieved by my undertaking the business 
part of your work. I have been thinking over it 
at my quiet tea and I think the prettiest way will 
be to have a little exhibition always of your 
year’s work opened on the first of May in con¬ 
nection with the crowning of the Queen of May 
at Whiteland’s College. I will always have a 
little catalogue prepared beforehand, and all 
London will come to see it,—all, I mean, that are 
worth a wish that they should come. 

This year I will show the principal drawings 
of our book—with any you may be able to send 
me by the time, and I will fix the prices myself 
and hope to do better for your poor than the 
chance travellers in Florence. 


» 


CONCERNING AGE 49 

The story of the little child is very wonderful, 
and to me most precious. Also that of the two 
bees! 1 And the little pencil beginning is a de¬ 
lightful gift. 

I am very thankful to get home after town 
work, (and play, which is much the worse for 
me). Here in my history or science, I can for¬ 
get how old I am. Dearest love to la Mama. 

Ever your devoted 

Fratello” 


Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
March 20th, 1884. 

Darling Mammina: 

That I should write to bother you with 
enclosed rubbish!—but Joan 2 says I am to, and 
Em the obedientest creature. 

I ’ve not been writing to you lately because I’ve 
been very melancholy, and naughty—and cross 
•—and topsy turvy,—nothing does me so much 
good as any thought of F’s book, and I hope I 
shall do my part in it rightly—well or ill. 

I’ve been a great deal petted in London this 
year, and I want to be younger—and to marry 
the prettiest of the pretty ones, and in fact I’m 
as like Faust as ever I can be! (Only please 


1 Christ’s Folk in the Apennine. 

2 Mrs. Arthur Severn* Mr. Ruskin’s cousin, who lived at Brantwood. 


50 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


don’t tell la Sorella,—but one must confess to 
one’s Mammina when one’s naughty.) 

I believe I’m pretty well, really. 

Ever your loving 

. Figlio” 


The following are extracts from a letter to Francesca 
by Miss Sara Anderson, Mr. Ruskin’s secretary, in 
which she refers to one of the lectures he gave in 
London on Francesca’s work and exhibited some of her 
drawings. 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
Monday. 

Dear Miss Alexander: 

. . . The Princess of Wales came up 
to him with the sweetest smiles and was so 
quietly dressed, and Lady Gordon helped him in 
the talking department. Dozens of people came 
up to shake hands. The Duchess of Buccleugh 
came up to him with many questions. 

You would like to hear that Mr. Ruskin looks 
very well and I think is so. But one can’t help 
noticing sorrowfully how things oppress him 
now, and how he steps cautiously down places 
where he would once have jumped. Forgive my 
adding a little bit of my own. I feel as if I knew 
you. I have heard and copied so many of your 
letters and beautiful stories, and never a day 
passes that we don’t mention 6 Francesca.’ 


51 


THE PLEASURE OF HELPING 

I am so thankful that you have come to Mr. 
Ruskin when so much else had gone. Like many 
other people in England, I am always 

Gratefully yours, 

Sara D. Anderson.” 

Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
April 1st, 1884. 

Sweetest Mammina: 

No, I’ve no other Mammina, no other Sor- 
ella, and it is ever so much more than I deserve 
to have such a two. It is true that I am not well 
just now, being both colded and tormented by 
dark weather, and by calculations of what I can’t 
do . . . and of what I’ve too little chance of 

doing if I tried. But what I wrote of my usual 
state of mind has been so ever since 1875. I sup¬ 
pose that through it all I had far more and 
higher pleasures than most men, or, in some 
ways, than any man that I know. 

The pleasure of seeing Francesca’s pictures 
and editing her book is immense to me, for in¬ 
stance, and the pleasure of anything like natural 
sweet sunshine and that of variously pleasing or 
helping people. 

Now, so many loving thanks for all the prett}^ 
things from Cyprus and Mexico, and the Monte¬ 
zuma relics will be very precious. And dearest 
love to our Sor ella, and I’m so glad people come 


52 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

to see the Suora, and please write me all they 
say, and I’m your devotedest figlio, 

J. R.” 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
April 24th, 1884. 

You precious Sorella: 

This is such a blessed letter and so full, 
overflowing with deep under-runnings of sweet 
things. I do so like Edwige and the widow’s 
taking to prayers about it, and that people like 
it at Florence, and Beatrice’s fur jacket, and you 
being taken for Botticelli! (My stars!) And 
above all that majestic story of your old clergy¬ 
man’s going home. But tell me exactly what 
happened, with detail. 

The American lady may have the drawing if 
she sends you forty guineas for it—not under. 
The single heads, I think, should be seven 
guineas, ten, and fifteen. 

I am very well just now chiefly, thanks, I 
know, to Mammina and you, and I should think, 
to Edwige and the widow. And I’m ever your 
happy 


Fratello.” 



COMMERCIAL OFFERS 


53 


4 4 Herne Hill, S. E., 
April 28th, 1884. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

Pm so very glad Mammina saw those 
things before I did—I’m so frightened always 
lest I should hurt her by finding fault with you— 
I don’t mind you a bit! 

Now look here:—you want more rest than you 
know—you have had much taken out of you by 
the increased anxiety and excitement,—and no 
promises, little or big, ought to stand in the way 
of your getting it instantly . The drawings you 
make by way of fulfilling them won’t and can’t 
fulfill them, for they won’t be as good as your 
average work. Tell Mammina to order you to 
stop, and then you must, you know, and get to 
Bassano as soon as ever you can. 

When there, write that story, by all means,— 
but I won’t have you publishing or published by 
anybody but me. I can’t have you made cheap, 
nor dragged at by the curs of the trade—peace 
or not. 

Now don’t ask such a thing ever again—there. 
I’ll publish whatever you write when it’s good, 
and I won’t have it published when it’s bad. 

I’m sending off (—it’s the 27th, not 28th Sun¬ 
day) all but the last two pages, 11th and 12th of 
my notes on La Zita, to introduce the story to the 
printer by this afternoon’s post. Joanie (that’s 
Mrs. Severn, you know) has copied them out, 
and I’ll send Mammina the MS., with the first 


54 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

clear proof—and Joanie says they’re very nice 
and I think so myself!—and I’m revising the 
print of the story in both Italian and English— 
it looks and reads ever so nice! and when I’ve got 
it all as right as I can, I must ask you to look 
over the Italian copy finally yourself, to see that 
it’s all right. 

I’ve just had—it is strange to say so, but it 
was,—a happy day at Claremont; the Duchess 1 
asked me to come to be presented to her mother, 
and I came up from Brantwood to be of any 
good I could to her. I found her quite composed 
in the feeling that her husband was not really 
lost;—and even happy in her mother’s presence 
•—the mother being an extremely clever, cheerful 
and ‘motherly’ woman. I was able to do the 
Duchess a really good piece of service. The par¬ 
ish church people had asked leave to put up a 
stone to the Duke. She didn’t like the inscrip¬ 
tion, and asked me to retouch it. She sent it to 
me in the evening and I re-wrote it entirely be¬ 
fore breakfast and took it down to her and she 
said, ‘I like it so much!’ And I did a pretty 
little vignette for her of the view from her (own) 
windows (—her room opening from the Duke’s 
study)—and she gave me the Duke’s book-cutter, 
which he had used for the last five years, and a 
little book-marker of her own drawing—and I 
came away very proud and glad. Then I went 
to the private view of the Water-colour Society, 


1 The Duchess of Albany. 



COLOUR WORK 


55 


where I had three of my own drawings, (one 
chromo of the main pier of Lucca)—as long each 
as this note paper, and a good bunch of them— 
and a third of a single violet against dead leaves 
under a mossy stone. 

I’m rather naughty, in not sending you the 
papers lately, for there’s been a good deal of me 
and about me—but I’ll get them for you yet. To¬ 
morrow I’m going to have tea with Miss- 

and to read her your description of the post¬ 
mistress. She’s sure to draw her. 

Now lastly about the painting: It may be that 
you will find you have a power in that, greater 
than you at all know—but mind, don’t fight with 
the difficulties of colour and light and shade at 
the same time. Draw your pen and ink things 
with more reference to chiaroscuro—but in 
colour—keep your present system of looking 
only for forms in light. I mean—paint a child 
with her yellow hair or black hair—her blue eyes 
or brown—paint the hills of their purple and the 
grass of its green—but keep all in bright light 
like a painted window, and try to paint fast and 
at once, not to ripple a finish. If you can go to 
Venice to look at Carpanio a little, he is a perfect 
model. 

But use your colour, not for the sake of the 
drawing but for memory of the facts only, and 
never sell a coloured drawing, nor add a touch 
to it unless you exactly know what it wants. 
Your colour work must be kept for play. If you 








56 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


enjoy carrying a drawing on, do; but never do 
for the sake of finishing, nor against the grain. 

Use opaque body colour as much as possible— 
you can draw forms and patterns so much better 
with it. Never mind the drawing’s looking 
chalky—if it’s not muddy and opaque—if it is 
bright. 

Here’s my hot water coming, and I’ve no room 
for half the love I wanted to send Mammina. I 
must write another letter all to herself. 

Ever your lovingest 

Fratello.” 


Mr. W. S. Collingwood, in The Life and Letters of 
John Ruskin, calls Prince Leopold “ the gentle Prince ” 
and writes of Mr. Ruskin’s affection for him: “ A sin¬ 
cere friendship was formed, lasting until the Prince’s 
death, which nobody lamented more bitterly than the 
man who had found so much in him and hoped so 
much from him.” 

Claremont, where Mr. Ruskin often visited, was 
given to Prince Leopold by Queen Victoria as a wed¬ 
ding present. The old Palace could tell an interesting 
story. It was built by Lord Clyde and has given shel¬ 
ter to a number of royalties and noted families, among 
these Louis Philippe of France and the families of 
Esher and Powis. 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
May 22nd, 1884. 

Darling Sorella: 

The long sweet letter and corrected song 
arrived at breakfast this morning, in a quite 



JANE ANNE 


57 


cloudless sunshine—and curiously, just as I am 
planning the end of my English Art lectures 
with that Georgian picture for an example of all 
that’s best, and that the English have not, and 
must strive for. 

This morning I was giving a lesson to my little 
shepherdess, Jane Anne, and hearing her say her 
collect for Ascension day. (Of course at school 
they had never told her the meaning of the word 
i Ascension’ nor anything about the circum¬ 
stances referred to!) She is ten years old, docile 
and intelligent in her own way to an extent, and 
the sheep being extremely eager to get at my 
young wheat, and as mountain sheep can leap 
anything but wire fence, and will often thrust 
through that, Annie has enough to do to defend 
the upper walls towering on the moor—along 
half a mile of up and down. 

I hope to send Mammina the MS. of my bit 
of Santa Zita 1 which she was good enough to say 
she’d like, by the same post. 

The needle-case came all right. I couldn’t con¬ 
ceive what it was—it shall go to Susie today. 

Ever your lovingest 

Fratello . 


Dearest love to Mammina” 


i Santa Zita, called the Protectress of Lucca. Tuscan Songs, 
Plates Nos. LXVII, LXIX, LXXII, LXXIII, LXXIV, LXXVII, 
LXXIX. 



58 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

From Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“Bassano, Yeneto, 
May 27th, 1884. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

On coming home this morning after a very 
pleasant visit to a dear old lady of whom I told 
you in my last letter, I found to my great pleas¬ 
ure your very kind letter waiting me, and I 
thank you much for it. I, too, am sorry to have 
the letters delayed so long, but it seems to be 
unavoidable when we are away from home, and 
it is better than having them lost. I am so much 
pleased to know that my letters amuse you. It is 
certainly very pleasant for me that you can have 
patience to read all my gossip and that you let 
me write you anything that comes into my mind. 

This is probably the last letter that I shall 
write you from Bassano, as we have engaged 
rooms at Venice for the first of June and now 
almost regret having done so, for it is very hard 
to part from these dear friends, and from the 
pleasant family life of which we have been a 
part. The only trouble with me is that they all 
want me in three or four places at once. Last 
Thursday Marina 1 asked me to make a cake, 
which I often do on an American receipt which 
is popular in the family. And Silvia, 2 who is 
enthusiastically scientific, wanted to give me a 
lesson in geology. In geological matters, Sylvia 

1 The Countess Marina Baroni and 2 her daughter Sylvia, the 
Countess Pasolini. 


MAKING A CAKE 


59 


obeys the precept to ‘exhort in season and out 
of season ’ and she sat down by my side and 
began to explain about the hot springs of Mexico, 
expecting me, as I well knew, to answer all her 
questions about them in the evening. Meanwhile, 
the two children were standing at my knee, much 
interested in the progress of the cake, and seiz¬ 
ing every opportunity to put their fingers into 
the flour. And I had to keep them out as I best 
could, until they disturbed the lesson so much 
that their mother sent them out of the room, 
when they ran off to the outside door, and 
amused themselves with ringing the bell in a 
manner to alarm all the household. And in the 
midst of all this, Count Pasolini sent me word 
that he wished I would come into the Museum 
and help him classify some shells, as he had an 
English book about them which he could not 
read without my help. Then Marina came in and 
complained that the geology prevented me from 
talking to her, so we laid it aside. And all the 
time I had to be very careful not to make any 
mistake in the number of cupfuls of flour and 
sugar for my cake. This is the way I always 
have to do things! 

I was not able to finish this letter yesterday, 
and today I meant to have told you about the 
very delightful old lady 1 whose portrait I am 
taking. But in the course of the sitting this 
morning, I managed to learn so much that was 

1 The Mother of the Orphans, Christ’s Folk in the Apennine. 


60 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

interesting about her life and the institution over 
which she presides that I think I shall write it 
all out carefully and send it to you with the pic¬ 
ture, so that you can sell them together, if you 
like. 

Edwige and I set out early in the morning and 
have a delightful walk up to the city and through 
the clean little streets with their low, Gothic 
arcades and little carved balconies full of flowers, 
meeting nobody but contadini,—mostly women, 
who, if we look at them, bow and smile and say, 
‘ Serva sua / The old lady told us she was 
always ready to begin her sitting by six o’clock, 
having then finished morning prayers and break¬ 
fast. Pretty well for eighty-five, I think! (She 
says that is her age.) 

I had forgotten until this minute that I had 
promised to tell you about our visit to Castel- 
franco, but I have not left room to do so. We 
had a beautiful day, and had the good fortune 
to find a fair going on and the piazza full of con¬ 
tadini, with fruit, chickens, and so forth, and 
many pretty things in wood and basket work. 
Always a pretty sight, but it troubled me to see 
many beggars who looked like respectable old 
people. I asked our friend Loredana about it, 
and she said they were contadini and that the 
poverty among them was so great that although 
a man could live, poorly, by his work, he could 
never lay by anything for old age, and when they 
are past work they have to beg. I cannot feel as 


THE CHAPEL ORGAN 


61 


if that were right in such a rich and beautiful 
country, and it is certainly not the case on the 
estate of Marina and Sylvia. But I am afraid, 
from what I hear, that our friends are rather 
exceptional people. Count Alessandro, Marina’s 
husband, always took an almost paternal care of 
his contadini; but with regard to other contadini 
in these parts I have heard some heart-breaking 
stories, which I will not distress you by repeat¬ 
ing. 

Giorgione’s Madonna, whenever I see it, al¬ 
ways appears to me more beautiful than the 
last time and does not look like the work of a 
mortal hand. It reminds me of what a poor 
woman said to me once in Florence: ‘What a 
pity that people are not as large now as they used 
to be!’ And when I asked her what made her 
suppose they were larger in old times, she said, 
looking surprised, ‘ Surely you cannot think that 
the people who built the Duomo were no larger 
than we are!’ 

But I must leave you, for Sylvia is coming in a 
few minutes to look over and correct that trans¬ 
lation. She is playing on the piano now down¬ 
stairs. But I wish you could hear her when she 
plays on the church organ in the chapel. It is a 
very grand and sweet-toned old organ, a hundred 
and fifty years old, they say, rather cumbersome 
in its machinery, but with a voice to do one’s 
heart good. 

Mammina sends much love. I am so glad that 


62 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


I continue to receive your letters as often as in 
Florence, which I did not expect. Best thanks 
for all. 

From your affectionate 

Sorella” 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, 
June 1, 1884. 

Sweetest and darlingest Sorella: 

To think that you are going into Venice 
today! D. V. Do please take my gondolier, 
Pietro Mazzini of San Francesco della Vigua, 
3133, on some of your excursions. He is very 
good. And of course you 11 see my dear friend 
Boni. And if you can hear or see anything of 
Mr. Rawdon Brown’s Antonio, 1 please tell me, 
and ask Saint Ursula if she still cares a little for 
me. I am very anxious to know this. And per¬ 
haps Saint Rocco might have just a little bit of 
benediction for me. And St. Jerome of the 
Schiaomi. And Father of the Armenians. I’ve 
just got his letter, tell him, and yours about 
Sylvia and Marina and the cake and the geology 
is so delicious! I’ve something nice to tell you, 
too, about the children, but I can’t today. Only 
I’m more and more your loving 

Fratello. 

Dearest love to la Mammina ” 

i Mr. Rawdon Brown was an Englishman wdio went to Venice for 
a short stay, but he fell so in love with Venice that he remained 
there until his death forty years later. Antonio was his gondolier, 
called (i Toni ” in Robert Browning’s sonnet to Rawdon Brown. 


SIGNOR BONI 


63 


Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
June 6th, 1884. 

Sweetest Mammina: 

Yes, it is you and Sorella that make me 
well. You make me myself—when I’m not my¬ 
self, and put me in sorts—when I’m out of sorts, 
and you can’t think how precious and in the very 
nick and prick of time your history of the pic¬ 
ture is, as you’ll see. And please tell me Mam - 
mina’s story, if she will so grace me that I may 
know it, and please tell her I want so much to 
come,—and why not, for I came abroad in ’66 
to see that Giorgione (and I never did) ; and now 
how much more have I to come for! 

But Mammina, the chief thing I want just now 
is that you should counsel and command my dear 
friend Signor Boni what is best to be done. I’ve 
told him to call on you and read you a letter I’ve 
written him this morning—and give you this. 
Francesca’s drawing is sent to Mr. Patterson, 
and I’ve written her a letter, too, but it’s gone to 
the Banca and I want to send this by Boni. And 
I’m ever your grateful and dutiful and loving 

Figlio” 

The “ Boni ” mentioned in the preceding letter was 
Sig. Giacomo Boni, a former pupil of Mr. Ruskin’s. 
He had been appointed by the Venetian Government 
to the Post of Director of the monuments of Italy. 

Mr. Collingwood writes, “ Giacomo Boni, the capo 


64 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


d’opera of the Ducal Palace, was doing his best to pre¬ 
serve instead of ‘ restoring ’ the ancient sculptures.” 

The Venetian Government, however, decided to have 
this work discontinued, and it is to this that Mr. Rus- 
kin refers in the following letter. 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
June 6th, 1884. 

My dearest Boni: 

That I have not written to you means 
really that I have so many and so grateful and so 
hopeful thoughts of you that I never feel quiet 
enough in a life of constant work to sit down to 
express them. I am going to beseech you to con¬ 
sult with my dear friend and Mamma, Mrs. Alex¬ 
ander, now at Venice—and to do absolutely, as I 
always do, what she bids you; my own wish being 
that you should leave Venice at once and employ 
yourself silently in carrying on my old work of 
drawing and measuring what remains in Italy. 

This I can promise you certainly as much 
salary for as your present one is ever likely to 
become—and I trust that I could put you soon at 
the head of some good architectural work. 

I should have much to say of my pride and 
pleasure in what you have done for my books 
and me at Venice. But that is useless at Venice, 
—the city is lost: Elsewhere it might be alto¬ 
gether salutary and strong for good. Meditate 
on these things and decide please with my Madre 
and Sorella, and believe me ever 

Your loving friend, 

John Ruskin.” 




VENETIAN HONOUR 65 

In Sig. Boni’s work in Venice, Mrs. Alexander and 
Francesca were of great assistance to Mr. Ruskin as 
they were able to interest the Countess Marina Baroni. 
The Baronis were an old and very influential Venetian 
family. The Countess Baroni exerted all her influence 
with the Venetian Government, with what success 
Francesca writes in the following letters to Mr. Ruskin. 


“ Abet one, July 2,1884. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

On the very morning that we left Venice, 
Sig. Boni came in to take leave; he seems very 
hopeful and every one says that the Government 
must give him the little help which he wants to 
carry out his plans. Your so handsome offer to 
him has been of use to him in a way that you 
probably did not think of. At first, people 
pressed him to accept it; and then, when they 
heard his reasons they began to say that if he 
were willing to sacrifice such prosperity for the 
sake of taking care of the old Venetian monu¬ 
ments, it touched the honour of the Venetians 
that he should not be a loser. The Venetians 
seem to feel this very much and I hope that we 
may soon have some good news of him.’ 7 

Later, in a letter from Florence, dated May 7, 1885, 
Francesca quotes from a letter from the Countess 
Baroni: 

“ ‘From Sig. Boni’s letter, you will under¬ 
stand that I have fulfilled the duty which I took 


66 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

upon myself for you, and for the illustrious man 
whom I revere. I pray you to write about it to 
your illustrious protector whose amiable letter I 
hope to answer when the affair is finished.’ 
(Marina knows that I call you Fratello, but I 
suppose she thinks that i illustrious protector’ 
sounds better.) 

“In Boni’s letter and in another which he has 
written to me, he says that his affair is now as 
good as settled. Marina has been so good. Just 
as if she had been his mother! And she has 
worked hard in this matter, and made everybody 
else work hard, too. I am so thankful, not only 
for Boni but for the old buildings of Venice, 
which he will now be able to protect, and for the 
walls of Bassano. . . .” 


Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
June 7th, 1884. 

Darling Mammina: 

You will like to know that yesterday I was 
going over the pencil lines of a drawing done at 
Pisa in 1872, with a pen, and found my hand 
quite steady. I Ve been drawing or writing 
scrawls lately, and was afraid I had got shaky. 
If I tried to show you my steady hand, of course 
I should shake, so you must take it on trust. 
I’ve a hundred letters to answer—and yet 


67 


EDITING THE SONGS 

must scribble this to you. But also, I want the 
account of the Modern pictures in Florence, and 
I want to know what Marina means by ‘sog- 
gezione’ —I want you and Francesca together to 
write me a little tiny life of Giorgione—with all 
the nice facts in it and nice memories—and 
please, Fm your obedient and loving 

Figlio. 

And please give my love to Edwige.” 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 

June 20th, 1884. 

Darling Sorellci: 

I bn going to give my dear Boni the task 
of bringing Mammina and you your letters— 
this postal arrangement will be good for his 
health and heart—and I enclose it in a good 
scold about overwork. What a delicious long 
letter this last is, just like the nightingale’s sing¬ 
ing at Rezzonico, and how glad I am it isn ’t like 
those old letters ‘without an accompanying 
word. ’ How cross they used to make me! 

What I’ve to tell you today is mainly that, 
having finished the second number of the songs, 
and getting the stories together for some print¬ 
ing ahead, I read for the first time the story of 
Fanetina! 1 I had always shrunk from it before 

1 The Soldier’s Love. Plate XXXIII of Tuscan Songs. 





68 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


in my dread of sad things; indeed I was always 
stopped by the pretty one at the beginning of the 
book before I got to it. And reading it carefully 
this morning, I feel that it will enable me to say 
the last thing I have to say about war after the 
various vacillations of my former writing about 
it, and I am going to give it in the number with 
the Lover’s Parting—and to change that num¬ 
ber from the 4th to the 6th so that it may come 
before the ‘P-.’ 


And I think these pictures and stories together 
will have such an effect as never was yet. 

I am thinking very much this morning of 
getting out a cheap edition for Christmas, of the 
complete book, without the photographs, placing 
the photographs at the same time, as they are 
completed, in the parish schools of each prin¬ 
cipal town. 

I think all this must have been put into my 
head by Edwige’s prayers. 


I am keeping very well myself, as the Mam- 
mina thinks, but feel age sadly in not being able 
to climb, or work with pickaxe (a favourite kind 
of work with me) at a hillside, as I used to do. 


Interrupted—can’t get anything more done 
today. 


Your lovingest 

Fratello” 


i 




SIGNOR BORTOLO 69 

Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“AH’ Abetone, 

July 2, 1884. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

This is the first free moment that I have 
had to sit down and write since your letter, with 
Sig. Bortolo’s, reached me at Venice. I sent you 
a few lines on the morning that we came away, 
day before yesterday: that night we passed at 
S. Marcello, and yesterday reached V Abet one at 
about two in the afternoon, after a very pleasant 
journey. Now I have so many things that I 
should like to tell you, but I had better begin 
about Venice, and first of all about Sig. Bortolo. 1 

I translated your letter for him, and he keeps 
it as a great treasure. He asked me, before we 
parted, to thank you so much for him and to tell 
you with tanti saluti, that he did not write to you 
again because he did not want to give you the 
trouble of answering; but if ever he could serve 
you again in any way he hoped you would com¬ 
mand him, for it would be a great pleasure to 
him. Just before we left, I had a very interest¬ 
ing visit from the wife of your gondoliers, Pietro 
Mazzini, with the little granddaughter who lives 
with them. The poor woman looks much out of 
health: she is never tired of talking about you 
and seems to think that they should all have been 
dead long ago if it had not been for the help 
which you have given them, for she says that her 


i Sig. Bortolo Zanchetta of Bassano. 


70 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

husband earns but little now at the traglietto: 
one day last week, she said, he earned a franc, 
and another day nothing at all; and she keeps 
calling down blessings on your head in Venetian 
with a rapidity which is rather confusing. 
Teresina, the child, is a pale, gentle little thing, 
rather pretty, and has pretty manners, but does 
not look strong: the grandparents seem quite 
bound up in her. Later, Pietro Mazzini came, 
himself, to say good-bye, and to ask how soon I 
should see his padrone. He was quite disap¬ 
pointed to hear that I was not going to your 
country: he sent you his salutations, and asked 
me to tell you that I had seen Teresina, because 
he said you used to be fond of her when she was 
a baby. I was really sorry to leave Venice this 
time. We have had such a pleasant visit. In 
the last days, after the cucina economica had dis¬ 
abled my eyes, I used to amuse myself by taking 
Edwige to see the pictures and listening to her 
remarks about them. She preferred to anything 
else the immense Paradise by Tintoretto, in the 
Ducal Palace, which she looked at for a long 
time in silence, and then astonished the custode, 
who had been telling a long story about the size, 
price, and artistic merits of the picture, by say¬ 
ing, ‘I hope there is a place for us up there, 
don’t you?’ 

Though I enjoyed Venice, I am glad to be in 
the country again; it is so pleasant sitting here 
by my window and writing, and not hearing a 


BEPPINO 


71 


sound, excepting the birds which are singing 
very sweetly in the fir trees. On our way we 
stopped at Piansinatico that I might see that 
dear blind Teresa, the wife of Pietro Petrucci, 
whose land you saved last year. She is so good 
and she would be pretty if she were not blind, 
and I never saw a sweeter or happier face. She 
was sitting by the door which opens into the lit¬ 
tle patch where Pietro has planted all his sweet- 
scented flowers, and which is now full of beauti¬ 
ful roses. And I was so thankful to think they 
were not going to lose their land: poor people, 
they take so much comfort in it! Here I have 
seen but few of my friends yet, but will try and 
tell you about them all next time. We live in a 
little house here where the rooms are low and 
small, but with much more real comfort than in 
the hotel (where lodgers have not yet begun to 
come: the place will not be half so pleasant when 
they do). The little boy of the house is studying 
his lesson aloud now, in the room under mine, 
which somewhat disturbs my writing. He goes 
to school to the priest, and once I wanted to see 
what he was studying: it was a book about duty! 
I thought the priest might as well have studied 
it himself, for he is dreadfully intemperate, and 
no ornament to his profession; and little Bep- 
pino really does his duty, as far as so small a 
child may be supposed to have any: that is, he 
takes good care of his little sister, and picks up 
sticks for his mother to light the fire, and never 


72 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


gives any one any trouble. I want so much to 
see what you are going to write about the 
Priest’s office; I know it will be something very 
grand. You ask if I am resting. ... I am, 
much against my will! But my eyes grow better 
every day, and I hope my next letter may have 
no blind writing at all. Mammina sends love. 
Next time I have so much to tell you about this 
place; but must end now. 

Ever your affectionate 

Sorella.” 


Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
July 10, 1884. 

Sweetest Mammina: 

I’m so afraid of losing this letter. I re¬ 
turn it today—in a time of general revision and 
•—alas—effacement of many precious things— 
(but none of your letters nor Francesca’s are 
ever lost), those of many an old friend, worn at 
the edges, yellow with time, pale in faded lines, 
I look at wistfully as they shrivel into dust. 

I get pensive at the turn of the days; but 
hitherto the years have brought me many joys 
and more encouragements. You and Sorella are 
quite a new world to me. My best goddaughter 
says, ‘What a rich godpapa you are, with such 
a mammina and such a sorella! and a little god¬ 
daughter who cares for you. I think you should 


73 


PREPARATION OF THE BOOK 

be content/ So do I. But—oh, the shortening 
days, the irrevocable . . . ! 

Anyhow, I think Francesca’s book is coming 
nicely. 

Your lovingest 

Figlio” 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
July 13, 1884. 

Darling Sorella: 

I have been having such a read of Mam- 
mina’s and your letters, and am so terribly 
ashamed of having so often left them seemingly 
unfelt. I trust that no use I may venture to 
make of any passage in your letters will in the 
least check your frankness; it is of the deepest 
consequence to me that you should continue that 
habit of entirely easy chat, and if ever I let other 
eyes see the parts which you might have intended 
for me alone, please blame me and bear with me 
—but don’t ever think, ‘I mustn’t tell him this 
or that. ’ 

I think that it is always well for me to act 
without asking your permission—else there 
would be perpetual delays and difficulties, and 
besides I want everything that’s found fault with 
in the book to be my fault—but I do think your 
passages in the letter of inestimable value in 
their relation to the book. 


74 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


Dearest love to Mammina, Ever your de¬ 
voted 

Fratello” 

Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
July 14,1884. 

Darling Mammina: 

I was up a little after five this morning 
and wrote the enclosed preface for Francesca’s 
third number, 1 before my seven o’clock coffee. 
Then I was out chopping wood till nine. Then 
at breakfast I got two letters together, one from 
Venice, one from Leipsic. The Venice, from 
Boni—the Leipsic from the present editor of the 
Greek Testament. I’m going to have both the 
letters copied for you, because I think you will 
like to keep them, with a bit of Francesca’s 
preface. 

I was reading your letters and hers all yester¬ 
day nearly, and I hope to get the book completely 
out, at least in specimen proof, before I return to 
Oxford in October. Ever your dutiful 

Figlio.” 

“ Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
July 19, 1884. 

Darling Mammina : 

I got your lovely letter and Sorella’s to¬ 
day, with several other good and dear things. I 

i The first edition of Roadside Songs was published in separate 
numbers. 



PROSPECTIVE REST 


75 


confess, also, this bit for Francesca’s book has 
been hard; but it’s the last thing I had to do to 
make sure, D. V., that the book should be out 
before Christmas. I finished it this morning; it 
goes to the printer on Monday, and the rest of 
the book can come out as fast as they can print 
photos and text. I never was so happy in any¬ 
thing I ever did. 

For that despondency (without it nothing of 
my good work could be done) all love means 
some form of sorrow also—all pleasure, reaction. 
I knew quite well you were too happy about me 
—do not now be too anxious—but please remem¬ 
ber always that my life has been both fortunate 
and unfortunate—amiable and foolish—more 
than most: and can be made only what I can 
make of it. 

I am getting on nicely with more things than I 
can tell you, and am able now to get as much rest 
as I like. I could not have rested before. 

Dearest love to you both. Ever your dutiful 

Figlio.” 


Mr. Ruskin refers in the following letter to Mrs. La 
Touche, the mother of Rose La Touche who became 
his pupil in drawing when she was nine years old, and 
until her death, eighteen years later, was the absorbing 
love of his life. His want of religious faith, and in fact, 
as he writes of himself, his having been at one time a 
skeptic, made Mrs. La Touche bitterly oppose their 
marriage; and Rose La Touche herself had too strong 



76 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


religious scruples, much as she loved him, to believe 
it right for her to marry him. 

On the wall of Francesca's room there always hung 
a little picture of Rose La Touche which had been 
given her by Mr. Ruskin, and judging from this photo¬ 
graph she must have been very lovely. She was also 
very talented. We inherited from Francesca a little 
book with a collection of some of her short stories, 
which are most charming and fascinating, and show 
great originality. 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
August 10, 1884. 

Darlingest Sordid: 

Just fancy; this morning at my breakfast 
your infinitely delightful letter came. I always 
breakfast by myself to collect my thoughts. No¬ 
body’s allowed to come in but Joan, or extremely 
close friends. One came in today whom I knew 
so well that I was able to trust her to read a letter 
of yours. I said, ‘ Please read me that while I 
take my porridge.’ She opened and read! She 
was Rose’s mother. Her voice did not falter, 
and I let her read on quietly all about Polissena. 1 

I can’t write more except that I think we are 
each happier every day in what we do for each 
other—you and I. The story of Assunta 2 will 
be the last in the book, before The Evening 
Prayer . I am getting on with it fast. 

1 The Peace of Polissena is the first story in Christ’s Folic in the 
Apennine. 

2 Assunta: Plate XCVI of Tuscan Songs. 


77 


ROSE’S MOTHER 

Tell Mammina she must put trust in Provi¬ 
dence till I’ve read all your letters over again 
and extracted the bits . I want to quote—and 
then I’ll do as she bids. 

Ever her obedient and your obedient 

R.” 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brant-wood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
August 23, 1884. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

I got your precious letter by second post 
yesterday—late, and I ’ve written to the Countess 
by this same post—all I could. I deeply trust 
that her goodness will prevail without any of my 
poor help, but I have said what I could. 

I am greatly relieved about your eyes, which 
have cost me more sorrow than I’ll tell you. 
Please evermore be careful after this. 

And I am very, very happy in the form your 
book is taking—the little supplementary bits en¬ 
able me to fit it all together into what will be the 
loveliest thing ever seen, and do more good than 
the Fioretti di San Francesco . 

You don’t know how strange it was that 
Rosie’s mother read that letter. I never told you 
that it was chiefly the mother that separated us, 
and I have been in such bitterness of soul against 
her as you in your goodness never could so much 
as conceive. Two years ago, she wrote to Ivan 
asking if I would forgive her. But I had for- 



78 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

given her, though she did not know it, on Christ¬ 
mas day of 1876 at Venice. 

And she is happy, though how, I cannot con¬ 
ceive, in being here, and when she read that let¬ 
ter I showed her other things about Rose, which 
seemed to be good for her. But—if only I could 
tell you the whole story, as you could have told it 
to me! 

Meantime I mustn’t write more, for I’m very 
tired. 

Ever your own 

1Fratello.” 

“Oxford, October 18, 1884. 
Darlingest Sorella: 

It’s a lovely morning, and your letter 
comes to cheer me and hearten—in beginning the 
i winter worries,’ to wit—first Oxford lecture to¬ 
day. I think you will like having the enclosed 
bit of Pall Mall Gazette about it. 

You would have known the sadder part of my 
life long before this, but you know I didn’t think 
we ought to have confidences with each other and 
not tell Mammilla. But if you have had days of 
darkness, she needn’t wonder nor mind my hav¬ 
ing them. However, you never find in those 
places that you like in my books, or in yours— 
you never find me speaking in my own person. 
I say ‘we/ according to the Christian Faith, just 
as I should say if I were editing a Turk’s book— 
such and such are Turk’s principles. I have no 


REFLECTIONS 


79 


more part in them than wishing them to be true, 
and believing that if I do not know they are, it is 
my own fault. Which is the darkest belief of all. 

I am very well today and hope to give the first 
lecture well. 

Dearest love to Mammina. 

Your faithful and grateful 

Fratello” 

“ Woodstock Road, November 25,1884. 
Sweetest Sorella: 

I needed a letter from you greatly and 
here it has come. I have a great fight here with 
vivisectionists and the like, and it is only to be 
fought on the terms of ‘When thou art reviled, 
revile not again’—but it is so difficult!—espe¬ 
cially when one is a little proud of one’s power 
of reviling! Also,—I’m just as hard beset as 
ever with my own wrongnesses—and the signs I 
get from the other world are always withdrawn 
if I get low-thoughted in this one, and sometimes 
I think they mean that I am not to stay long in 
this one—where, as far as I can make out, my 
serious work is just beginning. 

But I am most thankful for the change you 
brought to me—and I have to remember always 
the ‘Why askest thou after my name’ of the 
Wrestling Angel. 

Look here—you mustn’t try to interpret 
dreams or think about them. The Interpreter 
will come in His own time. 






80 RUSKENFS LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


Dearest love to Mammina . 

Your lovingest Franciscan 

Fratello” 

“84 Woodstock Road, Oxford, 
December 2, 1884. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

(I’ve only this pen, all full of wool, like a 
distaff)—I gave my final (this year’s) lecture 
yesterday and am packing up to get away on 
Monday next, and here’s your long letter, full of 
good help and deliciousness as usual. Oh, I do 
wish I could have Santa Rosa, only one of the 
best things I’ve learned lately is resolutely not 
to ‘wish’—except that all hungry children might 
have good meals. 

Your fire against the vivisectionists also is a 
mighty help to me, for the men here are not 
mean ones but really honourable in their pur¬ 
pose, and many good physicians are with them— 
among others one of the most good-natured old 
friends I have! But I’m giving it them gradu¬ 
ally more hot and heavy, and they begin, when I 
meet them in the museum, to slink away around 
corners. 

I am wonderfully well, though I’ve done as 
much as I can, just now, and am thankful to get 
away. 

The Vedova is perfectly beautiful, but of 
course not so interesting as the pictures of 
miracles and nice country. I can’t price it yet, 


BIRDS 


81 


I want to show it and the Saperiora together in 
London. 

Ever your lovingest 

Fratello” 

“84 Woodstock Road, Oxford, 
December 10, 1884. 

Darling Sorella: 

I’m leaving only today. I stayed for a 
meeting against vivisection, but little came of it. 
The good causes are all just now in weak hands, 
and the wicked flourish like green bay trees. 

Your letter comes back from Coniston to com¬ 
fort me. I never meant my real friends were 
vivisectionists, but men whom I respect, though 
one may always assume they are atheists to begin 
with, and the real broad war is with Atheism. 

But I’m tired now, and must go to look at moss 
and feed Robins. It must be very difficult to 
draw those little fidgety birds. I never do any 
but eagles and owls, who sit like rocks—at least 
eagles do. I never saw anything more funny 
than a large owl’s eyes, when he was disturbed in 
his mind by the aspect of my colour box, from 
whose splendour he at last retired into the far¬ 
thest corner of his house. 

Of course Santa Rosa 1 is true—even now—if 
children are alone enough, wild creatures love 
them. 


1 The story of Santa Rosa in Christ’s Folk in the Apennine. 




82 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

Can’t write more today; dearest love to Mam- 
mina, and some always to Edwige. 

Ever your troublesome 

Fratello.” 

“ Cheltenham, December 11, 1884. 

Seriously, darling Sorella, you must really 
—for the sake of the truth of the relations be¬ 
tween us—not think of me as able to advise or 
direct you, except in art only. In all the conduct 
of your life and heart you have been both by 
nature and by fortunate circumstance— alto¬ 
gether wiser, purer, stronger than I. My 
powers and feelings have been in countless ways 
wasted, perverted, blinded, only the Love of 
Virtue and the desire to help my fellow-crea¬ 
tures—man and beast—gathering always what 
was not wrecked, into consistent action and good 
result—though not the half of what ought to 
have been. Grant—or insist, if you will,—that 
my essential powers are wider than yours—my 
love of good and beauty as true—still the fact is 
so, that I, at my best, am as a vine torn by a wild 
boar out of the wnod. And you, like grass of 
Parnassus by its native stream. And never 
think that I can tell you how to do, or be, more 
blessed and bright than you are, while you can 
always cheer me and strengthen by the light of 
you. 

I hope to get the Carpaccio chapel printed di¬ 
rectly after Christmas. I was not able to add 




SUPERIORA AND VEDOVA 


83 


anything to either printer’s work or mine just 
now, and I was greatly vexed because at White- 
lands they changed the day on which your 
Superior a was to have been seen, and I had not 
time to send her. I hope to show her rightly in 
London when I return there at the end of Janu¬ 
ary, together with the Vedova, a really priceless 
drawing; but having no background, I do not 
think it can put above fifty guineas. I will un¬ 
dertake that the cheque for one hundred and 
fifty guineas for the two (Superior a and School 
and Vedova) reaches you before the end of 
January. 

I have used the story of the Orphanage 1 as 
you will see, to end Fors. 

Love and duty to Mammina, 

Lovingly, 

Fratello.” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
December 19,1884. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

I got the letter which I was to burn (was 
to—well, I had better do it if it is to be done. 
There!—and coals on the top of it, for it looked 
as if it would fly up the chimney) this morning, 
to my great help and comfort. I had been think¬ 
ing over all my happy past life and making up 
miserable accounts of indefinite Debit. Cer- 

1 This story is called “The Mother of the Orphans’ ’ in Christ s 
Folic in the Apennine, and in Fors Clavigera. 


84 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


tainly, Francie, it’s a lovely thing to be an only 
child, with such mothers as you and I have. But 
—how do you get on, now, that you’re ‘only’ no 
more? 

I had wistful thoughts of giving up everything 
and coming to Florence to be nursed, but people 
would miss me here! 

• • • • 


Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
December 31,1884. 

Darling Mammina: 

I ought to have had my letter in time for 
the New Year, but there was so much I wanted 
to say, as Francie always says to me (thank God 
it is so). But I’ve just got the enclosed letter 
from Mr. Watts, and send it on to you at once. 

I’m afraid you were chilled and frightened 
when Mrs. La Touche came: but you must put 
that idea out of your mind. There is nothing 
now between us but the entirest peace, and I am 
only too glad if I can make her the least happy, 
as I know Rose is, too. It is true that having so 
much company of different sorts did tire me 
through the summer . . . 

Ever your dutiful 

Figlio.” 


HOLY WEEK 


85 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“ Wednesday of Holy Week, 1885. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

I am afraid this letter will have to be writ¬ 
ten all in little snatches, for being Holy Week, 
all my contadini friends come to town and are in 
and out of my room from morning till evening, 
bringing the usual array of presents . . . 

home-made bread, eggs, lemons, flowers, and so 
forth . . . and I have my hands more than 
full attending to them all. But holy week seems 
always somehow to be their week; and many of 
them are very old friends. This letter will reach 
you, I hope, on Easter Sunday, but I have noth¬ 
ing better than a leaf of sweet geranium to put 
in it, as nearly all my flowering plants have gone 
to church. Two men and two boys came on the 
terrace yesterday and carried them all off. But 
I send you today a box of rosellini, just to show 
you the pretty colours. I can almost say of 
them, as a contadino with a basket of primroses 
said to me this morning, ‘Will you not buy 
them ? They are the spring! ’ These flowers are 
much loved here, especially by the country peo¬ 
ple. And, by the way, I did not think when I 
bought them: I ought to send you the rispetto 
‘Fior di Rosellini / There is not much to it, but 
it has a certain grace about it, and seems to carry 
one straight to the Apennines. Here it is, with 
a very literal translation: 


86 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


Oh, Rosellino! Fior di Rosellino! 

Dammi licenza se pensi di lasciarmi! 

Ti presi ad amar, qnand’eri piccolino: 
L’amorche t’ho port at o i mesi e gli anni! 
L’amorche t’ho portato, i mesi e I’ore! 

Oh, Rosellino! rendimi il mio caore! 

Oh, Rosellino, blossom of the Spring! 

At least, if thou wilt leave me, set me free! 

I loved thee, when thou wast a little thing: 

The months and years I Ve passed in loving thee! 
The months and hours! And now ... do we 
thus part ? 

Oh, Rosellino! Give me back my heart! 

i 

My plants have gone to church in my place to¬ 
day, for I have such a cold I can’t go at all, and 
it has brought back the mist to my eyes, so that I 
have to write half-blind, and you must excuse the 
looks of the letter. Edwige has been to Santa 
Maria Novella, and came back crying and wish¬ 
ing that I had been there, because there lias been 
a procession, as she says, ‘ Just like the funeral 
procession when they carried our Lord to the 
tomb.’ There was a great wooden cross carried 
by men with hoods over their faces, and then the 
long banner, and the Santissimo under a baldac- 
chino; and then, all the gentlemen with torches 
and children—some of them little bits of ones— 
with candles, and all the servants of the families 
in their liveries; and then women, and all the 
people coming after! One could not keep from 
tears, for I kept thinking it must have been very 


THE SUORA 


87 

like it—the day they buried our Lord! For they 
all looked so sad! Of course everybody feels sad 
in these days. I was interrupted in the middle 
of that sentence, as usual; and now the morning 
has all passed, one coming in before the last had 
gone, and now I have but a few minutes left, sit¬ 
ting among the sheaves of tulips and branches of 
apple-blossom. ” 


Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
April 16,1885. 

Darlingest Mammina: 

I am happy this morning—with your let¬ 
ter and la Sorella’s . There was nothing I 
wanted so much as that you should like the book 
—and that you should like it thus is a most true 
mother’s blessing to me. 

I think the Suora such a lovely subject that I 
should like her to try again, if it comes to her — 
never unless so, and I want her to do a few light 
and shade studies first, thinking of the light and 
shade. Her landscape done for me is all per¬ 
fectly right, on the key she chose—and the sun¬ 
light on Ida perfect in conception. 

Dearest love to her. 

I’ll try your way of getting happier—in what 
I have and can do. 



88 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


(I should like that cocoanut cup.) 

Ever your gratefullest and lovingest 

Figlio.” 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
April 27,1885. 

Darling Sorella: 

No, of course I can’t do it by myself—nor 
anyhow —that’s why I say I’m so bad. Pray as 
I like, I always do all sorts of wrong just the 
same—and for little pains—well—I try to bear 
them as the animals do. I don’t feel that I’m 
meant to pray that thorns shouldn’t prick me. 
And I sympathize dreadfully with the old Ber¬ 
wick boatman’s prayer, 4 Oh, Lord, we dinna 
trouble thee often—an’ if ye’ll just tak’ us 
ow’re the bar this ance, we’se ne’er trouble thee 
again.’ 

Oh me, I wish I could get a copy of that gospel 
of Edwige’s. 

Please, you’ll see in the 8th No. of Songs that 
I’ve asked you to tell us the legend of St. 
Christopher 1 in prose in your own way—so you 
must please set about it—for I’ve sent a lot more 
about anything but St. Christopher for No. 9, so 
we must have a word or two about him to 
finish. . . .” 


111 St. Christopher’ ’■—Tuscan Songs, 
XXXVIII, XL, XLII, XLIV, XLVI. 


plates Nos. XXXVI, 



89 


THE ROADSIDE SONGS 
Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“ Florence, Di 7 Maggio, 1885. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

At last I hope that I may be able to write 
to you a little quietly, for really I never seem to 
find a leisure hour now. I was much astonished 
to hear that the Roadside Songs are done, for I 
had not supposed that you had even begun Ho. 
10; and I thank you so much for telling me all 
the particulars about it. I think the two last 
numbers will be lovely, especially your remarks 
about St. Christopher, and I am in much haste to 
hear what you think about him. You never seem 
to think about anything just as others do, and I 
know now that you will tell me something about 
the story that neither myself nor my contadini 
friends, who have talked it over with me so often, 
ever thought of. 

Fratello, I wish that there were any way that 
I could tell you, not only how thankful I am to 
you for your kindness to me, but also for your 
care in preserving the memory of people and 
things dear to me, that would have been all for¬ 
gotten without you. That the old songs and 
hymns that Beatrice sang to me, and that I sang 
to Ida, and to so many who are gone now where 
she is, should enter into the lives of children in 
the far-away English schools . . . that the 
heavenly visions seen by good Sig. Rossetti 1 and 

i Minister of the Evangelical Church in Florence. 


90 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


by dear Cesira 1 when they were departing, 
should comfort the faith of others besides us who 
were with them . . . that the memory of so 
many of the ‘ hidden servants ’ which is such a 
blessing in my life can now belong to others as 
well as myself. ... I wonder if you know 
what all this is to me! I hope you do, for it is 
a great deal more than I can jmt into words. 
But no doubt you will have your reward for it 
all, either hi this world or the next, and, I hope, 
in both. I am glad at last that this is no longer 

r.' 

on your mind; and I hope now there will be noth¬ 
ing to disturb you in writing your own recollec¬ 
tions. For a long time I had a certain remorse 
in thinking that my little stories and contadine 
rhymes were taking time from your own im¬ 
portant work. 

Your letter of May 3rd was not to me, and 
Mammiiia has answered it; but, as we always 
consider a letter to one of us as if it were written 
to both, you will not be displeased if I too send 
you a word about what lately has been so much 
in our minds. When I read all that you say, it 
seems to me that you have been all these years 
carrying such a heavy and such a needless bur¬ 
den ! I have thought for a great while, when you 
have spoken to me about Rosie, that you did not 
take all that comfort in her that I take in Ida, 
and in some, nearer to me than Ida, who are al¬ 
ready gone home; but I never understood until 


1 Edwige’s daughter. 


CONCERNING LOVE 


91 


lately that you blamed yourself on her account. 
It took me a great while to understand it, be¬ 
cause I never heard of people thinking there was 
anything wrong in loving each other, and it does 
seem to me the strangest idea. And since you 
have let me speak so freely to you, I want you to 
let me speak once again, and have patience with 
me, for it is the last time. There are only just 
one or two little things that seem so very plain 
to me that I should like to say them, and you will 
take them for just what they are worth—one or 
two questions, that I wish you would try to an¬ 
swer to yourself, not to me. If you think you 
did wrong, what do you suppose would have been 
right ? That you should not have cared for each 
other? But do you suppose that either of you 
could have helped it? *Al cuore non si com- 
manda / There is a good text out of Edwige’s 
gospel. Bo you think you ought to have con¬ 
cealed your attachment to her? Your Mamie in 
her beautiful letter said that her affection was a 
gift from Heaven; and this I believe; but then, 
I believe that your affection was a gift of 
Heaven to her, and you had no right to keep 
away from her what the Lord had given her: 
You do not think you gave it to her, do you? 
Do you think you could give it to any one you 
chose? If the mother chose to turn your good 
into evil, you had no more responsibility about 
it than if you had given her a glass of pure 
spring water, and the mother had put poison in 



92 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


it. But supposing you had concealed your feel¬ 
ings, and she had died all the same. Would you 
not then blame yourself on the other hand, and 
say, ‘I might have saved her’? Or supposing 
(what is not very likely) that the mother had 
married her to a husband of her own choosing— 
would you not rather have her in Heaven than 
suffering what one like her must have suffered in 
that moral starvation and imprisonment of the 
heart, a marriage of convenience ? If you would 
not, it must be because you have not seen as much 
as I have of such marriages, which are the curse 
and ruin of my beautiful Italy. And as for the 
parents trusting you—there, I may as well con¬ 
fess it; I lost my patience a little, when you 
brought forward such a reason as that against 
yourself. 

Do you think it would have been better for 
her to have loved some one whom they did not 
trust, or had a bad opinion of ? And now I have 
done, and trust you to forgive my plain speak¬ 
ing, for which I can only make my old excuse— 
that I cannot help it! 

I have written thus far, and they bring me 
your very kind and pleasant little letter of the 
fourth, for which best thanks; also the papers 
about the May queen, which look very interest¬ 
ing. But I will write more about them in my 
next, for as I was just going to S. Rosa, I could 
not read them carefully, but will do so tomorrow. 
My eyes are very tired now after my morning’s 



FEAR OF DEATH 93 

work (and yours will be if you read much of this 
blind writing). 

Edwige has been entirely overpowered at the 
idea that her dead Cesira’s story was to be pub¬ 
lished ; she says it will make Cesira so happy if 
she knows that she is to be of use to people after 
she is dead, for all she ever cared for was to do 
good when she was alive. 

Mammina sends love, in which I join, and am 
always 

Your affectionate 

Sorellct.” 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 


“Whit-Tuesday, 1885. 

Darlingest Sorella: 

As if my letters were worth numerals— 
but I’ve done my best to begin with. Alas, that 
there wasn’t one by the post you expected, but 
I’ve been much tired in London, quite incapable 
of keeping up to letters,—chiefly those I most 
cared for. I must answer at least that pained 
question of Mammina’s and yours, about preface 
to Praeterita. It did not mean that I wished to 
die—far from it—but that the fear of death is 
lightened by the hope of being with them again. 

Very little lightened, when I think there are 
bad signs of me—I’m much more sorry and 
frightened than when I was young—partly be¬ 
cause some people will miss me more—partly 




94 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

because I’ve wiser plans if I could live to do 
them. 

Oh me—I wish you would leave Santa Rosa 
till you come back from Venice. 

I am very nervous about your eyes. 

Can’t say any more today, but I love you bet¬ 
ter and better every minute. 

Your Fratello 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
July 13,1885. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

I answer first—the question—of Mr. Al¬ 
bert Fleming. 

One of the best men in the world. His father 
left him a good business as a solicitor, on which 
he wrote to me, saying he had understood that I 
had written of law. Would I advise him to give 
up his business. I answer ‘No.’ Follow it, and 
be as honest in it as you can till you are inde¬ 
pendent ; then retire. This he did, to the letter, 
and is now an independent—not rich—gentle¬ 
man, living in a pretty house of his own which 
has the most beautiful view of Longdale that ex¬ 
ists, from his study windows. 

There, he has organized hand-spinning and 
hand-looms, hi obedience to St. George. He 
could only find one hand-loom left in North Eng¬ 
land—and nobody in Longdale knew how to put 
it up. He found out how from the photograph 
of Giotto’s sculpture on his tower—weaving! 


A NAUGHTY MOOD 


95 


He has now more demand for his mountain spin¬ 
nings than he can supply. 

My 'secretary/ Miss Anderson, who is an ex¬ 
tremely good and wise Scot lassie, shall copy for 
you the account written to Susie of his late 
interview with Princess of W. on this sub¬ 
ject. ... 

Your devoted Fratello ” 
Miss Anderson to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
July 18,1885. 

Dear Miss Alexander: 

Mr. Ruskin says because he is in rather a 
naughty mood he is sending you a pencilled pen¬ 
guin by W. Marks to show you a ' pious bird/ 
And I am also to say he has doubled the price of 
some of your drawings. 

Mrs. La Touche is at the Waterhead Hotel. I 
know you will understand the strain. 

Yours ever sincerely, 

Sara D. Anderson/ ’ 

Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
September 25,1885. 

Most precious Mammina: 

It is the chief thing that gives me any 
hope of myself—next to Joanie’s love of me, that 


96 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


you and Sorella care so much for me, and that I 
have indeed an intense sympathy in all your 
pleasures, though my own, for the time are 
ended. Every word you write—each of you is 
joy and strength to me; and you are the more to 
me because my life has been so strangely loveless 
till now. I have taken the chance of the people 
who came in my way—and never sought for true 
friendship—till at last it has come to me—if only 
I may be spared in its possession. And still I 
can’t understand how I have been permitted, out 
of my selfish and faithless life, to have any part 
in her sacred one. 

I was utterly ashamed to send Sorella those 
unfinished sketches, but if ever I try to finish, I 
spoil. I have no real gift for drawing—but only 
for seeing, but the method of them, as Sorella 
saw, is a useful one. 

I have been at Bassano—for—one night— 
forty years ago! I remember the look of the dis¬ 
tant towers, of the frescoes I saw. All Francesca 
tells me is delicious. 

I would fain take another sheet. If only— 
sheet or ink—wide and full as they could be 
would bear the least bit of my grateful heart to 

you. 

Ever your devoted Figlio, 

J. Ruskin.” 





DEPRESSION 


97 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
October 1, 1885. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

. . . Joanie insists upon writing the rest 
for me—which is mainly that you, she, and Mam - 
mina, are now the chief lights of my life. For 
my garden is not like your terrace. I never 
could do anything in it but dig a hole! And now 
I can’t even do that, because I can’t hold a pick¬ 
axe. The flowers are always withering as soon 
as I get interested in them—the mice eat all the 
apples—and the birds all the plums. 

I walk up and down the upper terrace of flat 
turf, and the beautiful Lake is before me—and 
the beautiful hills above me—and all they say to 
me is that I am old, and ugly!—my best hour of 
the day is having tea with Joan—and the second 
best going to bed, being tucked up by her, after 
having had a cup of bread and milk! 

The days on which letters come from Mam - 
mina and you are also shiny ones. I really think 
I am of an affectionate nature, though I’ve lived 
all my life alone. . . 

Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“Bassano, October 10,1885. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

I am so glad that it is Sunday morning 
again, because this is the day when I always 





98 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


write to you (though now I do not confine myself 
to one day but am indulging myself a little more 
for two or three weeks, by way of making up for 
lost time when you were ill); and the first things 
I saw this morning, when it was light enough to 
see anything, were the Alps above Recoaro all 
white with snow: in a few minutes they were 
shining out in the sunshine above the valley in 
shadow, just like a piece of Heaven! And the 
Virginia creepers are all turning scarlet, and I 
think I never saw anything so beautiful as the 
place at this season. 

But we have been passing two or three sad 
days, for our dear Angelina has been taken ill 
at the Locanda in Bassano, and it is hard not to 
have her able to come to us when she came to 
Bassano on purpose. Angelina was the first per¬ 
son who ever adopted Mammina, and gave her 
that name; and to me she has been a true sister 
for a great many years now. Some day I will 
tell you more about her, and her life in Peru, 
where she went with her husband at fourteen . 
Meanwhile, I must not dwell on stories of sick¬ 
ness and trouble; and I hope in a few days she 
will be about again. Marina has just this min¬ 
ute sent us up such a platter of fruit gathered 
in that wonderful vineyard of hers! Great 
branches of grape-vine, with heavy bunches of 
fruit hanging between the green leaves, and such 
pomegranates, burst open on the tree! I said as 
I caught sight of them, how I wished I could 


TELLING STORIES 99 

send you one of those pomegranates; for I never 
saw anything of the kind so beautiful! The eve¬ 
nings have grown too cold now for me to sit on 
the door-step and tell the children stories in the 
afternoon, so now we sit around the table with 
lighted candles, and my duties have become 
somewhat heavier, as all the family attend and 
I have to choose some story that will please 
everybody, from the grandmother to little Bebo. 
Yesterday evening, I am sorry to say, Silvia and 
Pierino had a quarrel as to which should have 
the seat next to me to hear Beauty and the Beast 
(for the third or fourth time) and I had to make 
peace by putting myself in the middle, after en¬ 
quiring which was the oldest child of the two 
. . . a question which nobody answered! My 

audience consists of Marina, who, as you know, 
has had a strange life of trouble and romance, 
and heroic adventures with Austrian soldiers 
and spies; of Silvia, who has had enough to sober 
her, one would think, besides her poor health and 
scientific propensities; of the little German gov¬ 
erness, and the two children. Besides these we 
have often a friend of the family who comes to 
pass the evening. And they are all very critical, 
and will not allow me to slight any part of my 
story, and ask me the most difficult questions. 
. . . Bebo, last night, ivould know who kept 

the Beast’s palace in order and cooked the sup¬ 
per ; and they expect me to describe minutely the 
dresses that Cinderella wore to the ball on both 



100 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


occasions, also her sisters’ dresses. Bebo often 
entertains us with stories of his own, showing 
much power of invention, and a sublime disre¬ 
gard of impossibilities. The other day, when his 
brother passed the examination, he asked why he 
could not have an examination, too (he is just 
six), and his Mother asked what he should be 
examined in: to this he replied, ‘Reading, writ¬ 
ing, and telling stories!’ 

Yesterday, I went for the last time to the exhi¬ 
bition with Silvia and Prof. Secco, who is a 
distinguished geologist, as I think I told you 
once before, and we had a delightful hour exam¬ 
ining the wonderful petrifactions, and the many 
kinds of marble and alabaster found in these 
mountains, besides various minerals and crys¬ 
tals ; and we were greatly entertained by hearing 
his explanations of them. 

Some of them are of wonderful beauty, espe¬ 
cially the marbles, which have every shade of 
green, purple, yellow, black, rose-colour, and 
white. They have also sapphires, jacinths, and 
other precious stones, all found in the hills about 
us. 

I was also taken to see the artificial flower 
department, which all Bassano is wild about; 
but, with one or two exceptions, the flowers were 
to me suggestive rather of starch and flat-irons 
than of a garden. I did not revisit the ‘fine arts 
department.’ 

The exhibition closes tomorrow. 


THE TUSCANS 


101 


Our good Sig. Bortolo Zanchetta is ill; not 
seriously, but confined to the house for a few 
days; and everything in Bassano going at sixes 
and sevens in consequence.—Nobody in Bassano 
can divide an inheritance, or make up a quarrel, 
or conclude any business of importance without 
Sig. Bortolo. I have been called away, with 
Silvia, to go to Angelina, and now at my return 
have only two or three minutes to finish this. 
Angelina has been telling me the loveliest story 
about an Indian that she knew in Peru, that I 
will write you next time. Much love from Mam - 
mina and me as ever. 

Your affectionate 

Sorella” 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
October 26, 1885. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

... As for that Ida Song money—of 
course it’s all yours. What did I do but put in a 
naughty note or two ? 

Why do you ask if there’s anything different 
in Tuscans ? Of course there is—they’re the fin¬ 
est race of the earth—you don’t suppose one 
could have got the Baptistry built by Esquimaux 
—or copper-coloured and soot-coloured folk? 

Fratello” 


102 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
November 13, 1885. 

Darlingest Sorella: 

It is a joy to be able to do anything for 
you—or say anything that you like—but then, 
you are so easily pleased—so impossible to be 
displeased! And Joanie’s very like you in that: 
I’ve just given her a little lot of leaf sketches to 
j)ut up for you, and she’s ever so pleased to have 
the packing of them. I’ll gather some bits of 
living things the first day I can get up the moor. 

And of course I am glad to be so far able to 
get about and see things again, and to be some 
good and pleasure to my friends. But the Mam - 
mina expects too much for me. She does not yet 
know the feeling of not being able to do the 
things she used to—she has in her yet the exhil¬ 
aration of youth. To me, the loss of the power 
of climbing hills, of drawing with hope of doing 
something pretty, of writing any syllable of what 
is in my mind. . . . 

Fratel.” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
November 29, 1885. 

Darlingest Sorel: 

It is such a wet Sunday morning, but a 
letter from Sorella makes it all bright, and I’m 
so proud of her liking my budding spray. I must 
try and be like an old oak myself, and bud for 
her, here and there. 



GOING TO CHURCH 


103 


There’s a merry omnibus full just driven away 
to church! Nobody ever seems here to dislike 
going to church as I used to do, and we’re 
obliged to have a tourist omnibus for the house¬ 
hold. 

Arthur himself, who came home on Friday; 
little Lily—or tall Lily she’s beginning to be 
—my secretary Sarah, our beautiful governess 
Clennie, our country kitchen-maid, who has quite 
a Paolina look in 6 going to church,’ the chil¬ 
dren’s maid Susan, a bright little dutiful nursery 
tutelar spirit; and they’ve got to pick up a nice 
girl, Ethel Hilliard, on the road, besides. I 
wished they had room for me, too! But Joanie 
stays at home to comfort me, and be Susan to 
the younger children; and I’ve your letter and 
a sweet one, too, from little Katie of the Kind¬ 
ness Society. And I’ve got my sea-gull in the 
out-house. On the whole, I’m not to be painfully 
pitied. 

How wonderful the new story about Edwige, 
and what mercy she had you to show her soldo 
to; but I can’t understand how it was possible 
for her to remain till then ignorant of gold. Alas 
for Florence and her florin. 

Dearest love to Mammina, and tell her I’ve 
really been very good—Joan says so—and ever 
your gratefullest and lovingest 


Fratello.” 



104 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
December 5, 1885. 

Sweetest Sorel: 

These chatty letters of yours are so deli¬ 
cious, but what a blessed simplicity of a child 
angel you are! The reason our people like to go 
to church—is—Joanie’s:—that she likes doing 
everything that is proper—Clennie’s:—some¬ 
thing of the same sort—and inscrutable (to me) 
ideas about Sunday bonnets—Diddie’s:—to put 
me to shame for not going—Lily’s:—because she 
likes an outing and isn’t scolded if she doesn’t 
remember the text. (Nobody ever asks but me.) 

.Your lovingest 

Fratello” 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 


“ December 31, 1885. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

I cannot tell you how very happy it made 
me on my return home this morning to find 
awaiting me your most kind and pleasant letter, 
which I was wishing for. And a few minutes 
afterwards came the precious music, written 
(and so beautifully written) by your hand . . . 
the loveliest of New Year presents! Thank you 
a thousand times for all! I was in such a hurry 
to write you my thanks that I have only tried the 
music over once: the chords are very beautiful 
and expressive. 



Francesca Alexander 

From a painting by Francis Alexander 




























105 


NEWS FROM BALTIMORE 

I have had great honour for the Roadside 
Songs lately: only think of part of it being read 
in a Catholic church! My friend Lilly Cleveland 
has an uncle who is a Catholic priest—Father 
George Doane, Vicar-General of the state of New 
Jersey—and his sister, Lilly’s mother, sent him 
the ‘ Songs ’ for a present. She has just sent me 
the note of thanks which he sent her, in which he 
told her that he had been reading the story of 
Saint Christopher, with Edwige’s comments 
upon it, to his congregation after mass, adding 
only a few prefatory remarks of his own! And 
something else, that I heard about Ida, pleased 
me even more. A young lady from Baltimore 
came to my room the other day with some 
friends, and she was telling me about a society of 
ladies in her city to which she belongs, which 
looks after poor girls, seamstresses, shopgirls, 
etc., especially those who come from the country 
and are far from their families. The object of 
the society is to provide the girls with cheap and 
comfortable lodgings, to keep a good restaurant 
for them only, to take care of them hi sickness, 
and to make them acquainted with friends to 
whom they can apply in any trouble or emer¬ 
gency. A lending library is also kept for them, 
in which, among the other books, are several 
copies of Ida, and these are always in request. 
When the girls first begin to borrow books, they 
care for nothing but novels of the most sensa¬ 
tional description. Then they are told about 


106 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


Ida; and when they hear that she was a poor 
working-girl like themselves, they feel a curi¬ 
osity to read her story, which always interests 
them, from its resemblance, in many respects, to 
their own lives. And after reading the preface, 
they ask about you, and want to read some of 
your books. 

The lady in charge usually begins by lending 
them Sesame and Lilies which is a delight to 
them; and then the bad novels begin to lose 
their attractions, and many of the girls de¬ 
velop a taste for really good and valuable read¬ 
ing. It is pleasant, is it not? to think that 
you, and Ida, and I, should be all together help¬ 
ing those poor girls and brightening their lives 
away in Baltimore, where not one of us has ever 
been! 

But I must end— Fratello, there was just 
one word in your letter that troubled me! Do, 
if you care for me, try and not let people make 
you angry, whether they do right or wrong: I do 
not think there is anything worth worrying 
about, certainly nothing worth 4 your worrying 
about, for it might make you ill, which would be 
worse than any other harm they can do. This is 
the last day of the old year. May the new one 
bring you every happiness and blessing, spiritual 
and temporal, for you and all whom you love. 
This is the constant prayer of Mammina and 
your 


SorellaS’ 


COMFORT IN WORK 


107 


“ February 3, 1886. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

I hoped to have written you a long letter 
this time, but as it is, I am afraid I shall have to 
content myself with only a few lines; for, if pos¬ 
sible, I want this to arrive the evening before 
your birthday. On the day itself you will have 
so many letters that I think you will be quite 
tired with them all, and would rather have one 
less than one more, and I should like to have 
mine the last letter of the year that is going—to 
come when you are quiet and alone, only to tell 
you how I hope and pray that this year of your 
life may end, and the next begin, in all peace and 
blessedness. And I do thank the Lord with all 
my heart that after all the trouble and anxiety of 
last summer, the day finds you with restored 
health, and able once again to take comfort, and 
give comfort in your work. And I hope the next 
year, and as many more as it may please Him 
to give you, may find you and leave you well and 
happy—at peace and at work. That is the best 
I can wish for you; for I feel somehow that of 
all your earthly comforts, your work is the one 
that you would find it hardest to give up. One 
can understand it in such work as yours. . . . 
But does it never seem strange to you how people 
come to enjoy every kind of work? There is 
Angelo Bernardi, Beatrice’s son; he is poor and 
works very hard, and most people would think it 
a sad fate for a poet (and he is a poet) to pass 


108 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

his life among stones and mortar. But what do 
you think he said to me once? ‘I never could 
have been anything but a builder, I had such a 
passion for building from the time I was a child! 
My family wanted me to stay on the farm, but 
I could not! Oh, but you cannot think what 
beautiful work it is—nobody knows who has not 
tried! When the evening comes, I am always 
sorry, and do not want to stop; I always want to 
see how the wall will look when I have done a 
little more, and so I work on, quite into the dark¬ 
ness!’ All this said with that peculiar inspired 
manner that he learnt, or inherited, from his 
wonderful mother. 

Now as to my work, I have a great deal to do 
just now; and the lady of whom I wrote you in 
my last letter has been back, and brought a beau¬ 
tiful girl with her, whom I suppose to be Maggie, 
but she only introduced her as ‘my daughter’ 
(which is an uncomfortable habit that most of 
my visitors have), and I am to draw her likeness 
next week. But meanwhile I do not know the 
name of either of them, which is aw T kward, and 
have to call the lady ‘Madam’ and the girl ‘My 
dear.’ Maggie is about sixteen, dark-eyed, 
curly-haired, fresh-coloured, with perfect fea¬ 
tures, and as wild as a hawk, as American girls 
are apt to be at that age, with more energy and 
spirits than she knows what to do with. Her 
mother says that no one has ever been able to 
take her likeness, so that I am a little dismayed, 


AMERICAN ROBINS. 


109 


more particularly as she appears quite incapable 
of keeping still for two minutes together; but at 
least I shall enjoy having that lovely face to 
study. 

I have just been looking at the letter which 
Mammina has been writing to my dear cugina, 
and see that she has forgotten to answer her 
about the American robins. They have bright 
red breasts, and their wings are dark and glossy 
like those of a swallow. They come home to New 
England in the early spring and their sweet 
whistle seems to give us the feeling of spring 
more than any other sound. On Boston Common 
there are hundreds of them, in the middle of the 
city, building their nests in the great elm-trees. 
They are gentle creatures, almost as gentle as 
the doves at Venice. 

Do please give my love to Joanie, and show 
her this account, since she cared to know about 
them. But the golden robin, of which I wrote 
you before, weaves its nest instead of building it, 
of a sort of strong, perfectly flexible cloth, into 
which it will work almost any kind of material. 
It ties its soft little bag of a nest on to a very 
slender branch, where it hangs rocking all day 
in the wind, so tightly that it never falls unless 
the branch falls with it. 

But I must finish this long rambling letter, so 
good-bye for now. And among all the thousands 
of prayers that will go up for you tonight and 
tomorrow, there will be none more sincere and 


110 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


earnest, though there may be many more worthy, 
than those of your 

Sorella. 

(Here is a rispetto that has been running in 
my head all day: the translation is poor, but the 
original so pretty I must send it to you. It is 
about the spring, when the men come home from 
the Maremma: 


E ritornato il fior di primavera, 

E ritornato la verdura al prato. 

E ritornato chi prima non c’era, 

E ritornato il mio innamorato. 

L’ e ritornato la pianta col frutto, 
Quando c’ e il vostro cuor, il mio c’ e tutto. 
L’ e ritornato il frutto colla rosa; 

Quando c’ e il vostro cuor, il mio riposa. 


The flower of spring has come to earth once 
more, 

Grass to the field, and blossoms to the tree, 
And he has come who was not here before, 

The spring has brought my love again to me. 
The plants are green, the trees with blossoms 
shine; 

And where your heart is, there is all of mine. 
And on the brier has blossomed out the rose; 
And where your heart is, there can mine repose. 


In the language of the mountain people, 
‘frutto’ means any kind of tree.” 


MISS KATE GREENAWAY 111 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 


“February 8, 1886. 

Darling Sorella: 

Your lilies of the valley were beside me 
at breakfast; and my first work after breakfast 
has been correcting the proofs of the Story of 
Lucia . 

Very thankful am I that my life has been 
spared to do so. My happy task is farther set 
me today by the enclosed letter from Allen, 
which I answer next after this. 

I wish my Sorella could see the drawing Miss 
Kate Greenaway has sent me—referred to in the 
enclosed piece of end of note—I should like you 
to see little pieces of her notes sometimes. I 
want you to know her and like her, and the 
knowing you will do her good; this is a tiny bit 
of introduction. 

Dearest and devotedest love to la Mamma. 
Love to Edwige, and to Lucia, very particularly; 
Beatrice would not care. 

Ever your devoted and grateful and loving 
Fratello 

J. Ruskin.” 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“Florence, 

March 13,1886. 

Fratello mio: 

Just as I was finishing this, your letter 
arrived with the most precious and beautiful one 



112 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


from Rosie. She was herself when she wrote 
that; it is lovelier than anything I have seen of 
hers yet. How can I ever thank you for trusting 
me with such treasures? And I have so very 
much to say to you, that I think I had better not 
try to say it today, but will write you at length 
in a day or two. Only just one word now—In 
the envelope which you have marked, ‘For 
Sorella. This is an earlier one,’ there was no 
letter, but a very beautiful piece of poetry appar¬ 
ently in Joanie’s handwriting, entitled ‘Love,’ 
and commencing: ‘Love that cannot fail with 
time.’ Do please explain this to me when you 
write again. And now I will not try to write 
more, or I shall send you eight pages instead of 
four, and you will be tired before you have done 
reading them. 

Only I am so very sorry about the scalding, 
and especially just now when Joanie is away, 
and in this dreadful cold weather! You must be 
having a sad, dull time, shut up in the house 
with the snow outside, and with such an accident 
to prevent you (I suppose) from even taking 
many steps in the house; and I know that a scald 
is a very bad hurt, though I never had one. 
Please do not fail to tell us about it when you 
write again, for we shall both be anxious to hear 
that you have quite recovered, though I am 
thankful that you write as if the worst were over. 
Oh Fratello, your letter and hers have a little 
upset me this time, and I have so much to say, 


RETROSPECTION 113 

and do not quite know how! But I will try and 
put my thoughts into order, and into words, by 
tomorrow: just now they come too many and too 
fast. 

Good-bye for now! Love as ever from Mam - 
mina and 

Your affectionate 

Sorella.” 

“Florence, 

March 14,1886. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

Today is a dark, rainy Sunday, and I am 
not sorry because now I can sit down and write 
to you without the fear of people being in and 
out all the time. Your letter and poor Rosie’s 
have been in my mind ever since I received them 
yesterday: I keep turning over your words and 
hers, and they give me much new light on things 
which I am only just beginning to understand. 
I think she tried to prevent your loving her, as 
she thought too much, because she recognized her 
own condition, and probably felt that whoever 
loved her would have to suffer with her and for 
her. She does not seem to have understood that 
you would have found your greatest happiness in 
making her happy, as far as she could be made 
so; during the little time that she had to stay 
here. I wish, for her sake and yours, that things 
had been different, and that you could have a few 
happy years to look back upon. But do remem- 


114 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


ber, that not your love, nor any earthly love, 
could have lengthened the time; in any case, 
things would have been now . . . just where 
they are. There is no use in trying to keep with 
us those who are not of this world; one might 
as well try to keep a rainbow. I do not think 
you 6 bothered ’ her, and it would have been well 
if she had not been afraid to trust you—and her¬ 
self. She speaks as if your goodness to her were 
a great comfort, but she seems to have suffered 
from the unkindness of her family, and she- 
longed to go—and after all, you could not have 
made her half so happy as the Lord made her 
when He took her home! I still think that her 
illness had begun to work on the mind, so that 
she was not always herself (I can in no other 
way account for her being, as she seems to have 
been, at different times, two different people— 
this letter has nothing in common with the two 
you sent me before, excepting the handwriting) 
and I never read anything more heart-breaking 
than the words in which she speaks of her own 
condition. I think I know my Sorella better, 
since I have read this letter, and she is brought 
nearer to me than ever before. But, Fratello, the 
trouble is over for her a great while ago. Do try, 
by the Lord’s help, to let it be so, as far as pos¬ 
sible, for you, too. It is not very easy for me to 
write you about this, because, take it as one will, 
the story is so sad; and I fear always that in 
spite of all my care, my words will give you pain; 



THE COMFORT OF FAITH 


115 


but at least you know with what a heart I write 
them! So do not be angry with me if I say what 
is in my mind this minute. If she could have 
been all yours—as the Lord knows I wish with 
all my heart she might have been—you would 
have had some beautiful memories in your life 
now, but you would not have had much else. 
You say yourself that you would have sacrificed 
everything for her; and when she was taken, you 
would have found that all your life had gone 
with her. But there is no use talking; one must 
fall back on Ida’s saying: ‘He knows what He 
does / There is no great comfort outside of 
those words. 

I have no heart to write about anything else 
today; but I must tell you how very much I felt 
your kindness in putting my letter with hers — 
indeed, I felt it too much to say more about it. 
I do not quite think I explained what I meant 
about casting burdens on the Lord. I do try 
(sometimes I succeed and sometimes I do not) 
to leave my cares with Him, especially with 
regard to my own failures and incapacities; but 
I do not try not to feel my own troubles, nor 
those of others, for I do not think He expects 
that of us. He bore and felt more trouble than 
any of us when He was here. I will not write 
more now, and if I am a ‘miserable comforter’ 
I can wish only that I were a better one. And 
let us try to enjoy our treasures in Heaven, and 
not feel as if they were treasures lost, when they 


116 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


are really the only ones we never can lose, un¬ 
less we lose ourselves. (And I trust our Master 
will never let us do that!) Please do not forget, 
when you write again, to tell us about that beau¬ 
tiful poetry which we have been wondering and 
conjecturing over, ever since it came. Mammina 
thinks it must be by some old poet. And I think 
it is too good and too powerful to be modern. 
She sends love as always; I will send you a 
longer letter next Saturday, and meanwhile am 
always 

Your affectionate and most grateful 

Sorella. 

I do want to add one word about what you said 
to Mammina about David and the way his sin 
clung to him as long as he lived.—You always 
let me tell you all my thoughts.—Are we not liv¬ 
ing under a different dispensation now ? I know 
it was so with all the Old Testament saints, but 
I cannot find one such case in the New Testa¬ 
ment. Saint Paul was a very wicked man before 
he was converted, and Saint Peter denied his 
Master. But I cannot see that those things were 
ever remembered against them afterwards, or 
that they ever remembered them against them¬ 
selves. It seems to me, when the Lord forgives 
us, we ought to forgive ourselves. Of course I 
do not mean that you shall answer the things 
I say. I talk to you as if I were talking to my¬ 
self.” 


117 


ST. PAUL’S CONSCIENCE 
Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
March 15, 1886. 

Darling Sorel: 

It’s lovely your taking Rosie’s poetry for 
an old master’s. I find the wicked little witch 
sent it to Joan—as if it was merely addressed to 
the Spaces and Eternities—and Joan copied it 
for me. 

Remember, however, I’ve been sending you 
her letters at five-and-twenty. Ill copy you a 
rhyme at eighteen when I’ve time. 

Joanie home yesterday—ever so much better 
in very serious ways. She had not told me how 
ill she was. 

You darling Sorel! Who told you St. Paul 
was a wicked man before he was 4 converted’? 
He was no more converted than Cornelius, or 
Matthew, or Nathaniel. Christ never called 
wicked people. (The devil didn’t get into Judas 
himself till the supper!) Christ didn’t call the 
Magdalene herself—only let her come. Just be 
so good as to read Acts XXII, 3—and 10. He 
simply asks what he is to do. Not in the least 
frightened, not in the least ashamed of himself; 
his conscience as clear as the light that struck 
him down. 

Then read XXIII, 7, XXIY, 14, XXYI, 4, 
5, 6, 9, 18, and see what naughty things you’ve 
been thinking of the Apostle who of all men 




118 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


was the most obedient, the most loving, un¬ 
selfishly. 

St. John loves as a friend, St. Paul as a 
teacher and deliverer. 

Your loving 

Fratel.” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
March 16, 1886. 

Darling Sorella: 

So many thanks for every word you write, 
always. The account of chapel is invaluable to 
me. 

I ‘dipped’ for those letters and only glanced 
at the poem. I thought it was Rosie’s original. 
I suppose Joan copied it to keep herself, or the 
like. 

Rosie wrote a great deal of verse. Of course 
she was out of her mind in the end; one evening 
in London she was raving violently till far 
into the night; they could not quiet her. At 
last they let me into her room. She was sitting 
up in bed; I got her to lie back on her pillow, and 
lay her head in my arms, as I knelt beside 
it. 

They left us, and she asked me if she should 
say a hymn. And I said yes, and she said, 
‘ Jesus, lover of my soul,’ to the end, and then fell 
back tired and went to sleep. And I left her. 

Ever your lovingest 

Fratello” 


119 


SAD MEMORIES 
Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

‘ i Florence, 

March 20,1886. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

I was just going to write to you this morn¬ 
ing, when your beautiful and very interesting 
letter was brought to me with so much that I 
should like to answer and do not feel at all able 
to; but at least I must thank you for telling me 
things so precious for me to know, and for the 
confidence with which you write to me, and for 
which I am most grateful. I was almost afraid 
to write you what I did about my poor S or ella; 
but now I see that I was right, and that the 
words that seemed so unlike her were not reallv 
hers but only the fancies of her illness, for which 
she was no more responsible than for her dreams. 
I am thankful for you that you have at least this 
to remember, that you were able to give her relief 
when no one else could, and at the time when she 
suffered most: I should think that remembrance, 
sad as it is, would be always a comfort and bless¬ 
ing in your life. But I cannot tell you how it 
went to my heart that she should have been com¬ 
forted by our hymn (as Silvia always calls it), 
the one which I wrote you about from Rezzonico, 
and which I am always singing to myself when 
I am alone; and it will now be dearer to me than 
ever. I think, Fratello, with all your sorrow and 
loneliness, which this departure put into your 
life, that you must sometimes find it in your 


120 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


heart to give thanks for her, safe now with the 
Friend whom she loved so dearly that His name 
was sufficient to give her peace, even in delirium! 
And I know that in the bottom of your heart, you 
would rather have her there than—where she 
would be now, if her life had been prolonged. 
But I will not say more; some things are too sad 
to speak of, or even to think of—and yet perhaps 
it is well to realize a little what she was saved 
from, in being called home so early! 

I was astonished to hear that the poetry was 
hers; we had both supposed it by some old poet, 
probably one of the greatest. . . . Mammina 
suggested Milton, but I told her that if it had 
been by him we should certainly have seen it 
before. I am glad that I read it without suspect¬ 
ing that she wrote it, as otherwise the love that 
has grown up in my heart for that dear saintly 
Rosie (and which increased with all that I know 
about her) would have made me distrust my own 
admiration of it. She must have been a wonder¬ 
ful woman! But I am going to try this time not 
to fill my letter with what after all it must sad¬ 
den you to dwell upon; (though I should like to 
go on writing about her to the end of my four 
pages:) and there is much else that I must say 
today. 

First of all, you do not say a word about your 
scalded foot, nor indeed about yourself in any 
way; I hope that you are quite well again now, 
and so just did not think of it: but do please let 


PROFESSOR GREGORY 121 

us know when you write again just how you are, 
for you know we are so far away and have no 
one whom we can ask about you. We have been 
hearing about you lately from a friend whom I 
little expected to see, and from whom I enclose a 
letter—Prof. Gregory, from whom you sent me 
two very interesting letters to read a long time 
ago. 

He was here for only a very few days, and 
those so busy that he had not time even to walk 
through the gallery or to go once into the coun¬ 
try to see the Florentine hills in spring, as he 
much wished to; still, he was so kind as to come 
and see us, and brought me a letter from Sig. 
Boni, whom he had just seen in Venice. Mam- 
mina arranged that he should come in and dine 
with us every day while he was here (as our 
dinner hour came just at the most convenient 
time for him, when the libraries were closed) so 
that we had three or four short, but most inter¬ 
esting, visits from him, for which I must thank 
you, as he said that he wished to come at first in 
consequence of what you had told him about us. 
He told us a great deal about you and Joanie and 
the children, and described to us minutely your 
home and manner of living, and the country 
about you, and especially your great kindness to 
him—all of which was a great pleasure. 

The early poetry which you promise to send 
me from Rosie will be a great treasure: I can 
understand why she did not send it to you 


122 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


directly; she thought that she could conceal to 
whom it was addressed; and while she loved yon, 
it seems to me that at times she avoided anything 
that might bind you to her. . . . Probably 
she had a presentiment of the shadow that hung 
over her and whoever loved her. 

I have not another minute today, so good-bye 
until tomorrow, with love from Mammina and 

Your affectionate 

Sorella.” 


Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
April 10, 1886. 

Darlingest Mammina: 

Snow clouds just clearing gloriously off 
the entirely blanched mountains. 

I am doing really good work in all directions. 
Just now I am finishing a chapter of Proserpina 
—Book Y—on Cork:—a chapter of our Fathers 
on St. Patrick and St. Columba, which involves 
the whole history of St. Germain of Auxere. I 
am writing a paper for schools on the crystal¬ 
lization of the native metals, collecting my scat¬ 
tered writings on Education, and going on with 
Praeterita / under the terror of dying before I Ve 
got the best of it done. 

1 Mrs. Alexander and Francesca were intensely interested in 
Praeterita, as it consisted of Mr. Ruskin’s personal reminiscences. 
He sent them each number as soon as it was published. 


PRAYER 


123 


I’m very well and sleeping well, but bothered 
rather by a swimming of the eyes when I’m at all 
tired. General rage at politics, if I get hold of a 
paper, and correspondence with inevitable nui¬ 
sances of people—or two or three friends who 
must not be neglected—take up every morn till 
eve. . . 

r 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
May 2nd, 1886. 

Sweetest and dearest Sorel: 

I can answer only one little bit of the 
lovely chat today. ‘ Perhaps you do not mean 
anything in earnest, except to puzzle me!’ My 
darling, how could you think, or be on the edge 
of thinking, that of your poor fratel! I never 
write one word to you but in the deepest earnest, 
—down to the Earth’s deepest and Heaven’s 
nearest—earnest; but I write in playful words 
often because it won’t go into any others, and 
often to keep you from being hurt. What I said 
of ‘my own thoughts about Mammina’ she will 
partly understand from my question in yester¬ 
day’s letter. Shortly, I mean that there are peo¬ 
ple whom Christ lets see Him and be with Him; 
and others who never see Him all their lives and 
who are not meant to, nor to pray, nor to hope, 
but to live like the ravens, as I said. 

I have prayed many and many a day. But I 
never got the things I wanted, sometimes the 




124 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

help or relief, but never things . But I can’t 
write more. I have such a lovely letter from my 
Grannie, so pleased by my saying in Praeterita 
how pretty she was at eighteen. How I do wish 
I had made a drawing of Grannie when she was 
fifty! She was quite lovely still—then. But 
now, she has suffered too much. 

How you do tantalize me about Silvia! 

Ever your poor tormented 

Fratel.” 

* « 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
May 8, 1886. 

Darling Sorel: 

You don’t think I thought you’d read 
Mammina’s letters when I altered Miss to Mrs. ? 
It was only that she might open the envelope if 
you were out. I’ve been having no luck with her. 
I asked her if she could tell me anything wrong 
she ever did in her life. I knew she wouldn’t. 

As for poor me, my Sorel, I’m a Turk, and a 
Greek, and a Roman, and a Brahmin, and a 
Buddhist. It’s no use thinking about me except 
in those verses I sent you yesterday, written out 
indecipherably by Grannie, copied by Diddie. 
But, Sorel, dear, you and Mammina mustn’t go 
taking everybody for granted who say they’re 
my friends. At least I could count my friends 
on my fingers. The people that say they are, are 
mere acquaintances. When any of my friends 
are coming to see you, I’ll tell you before. 


APPRECIATION 


125 


Please give my love to Mr. Newman, who is a 
friend, if he’d only paint with the rational num¬ 
ber of colours. 

I’m very miserable just now—the fading away 
of all one’s old powers is too bad sometimes. I 
can’t dig. I can’t pickaxe. I mustn’t wade. I 
get out of breath climbing hills. I had some 
asparagus yesterday and didn’t care for the taste 
of it. I don’t know what to do with myself in 
the evening, and when it’s five in the morning 
I wish it were six. 

Ever your poor old 

Fratel.” 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“Florence, 

Pi 14 Maggio, 1886. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

Here at last I have found time to sit down 
and write you my thanks, a little better than 
yesterday, I hope, for your beautiful present. 
The reproductions of your drawings are lovely; 
to me, so much better than any engravmg can be, 
giving every touch as you made it; and the pic¬ 
tures themselves are so very beautiful! As I 
look at them, it seems to me that each in turn is 
the one I like best. Mammina seems to admire 
the Chamouni one the most, looking straight up 
the side of a mountain into the clouds! And I 
suppose that is rather the most impossible; but 


126 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


I was especially charmed with the view of 
Amalfi, which I have never seen but feel now as 
if I had; and perhaps even more with the 
Madonna della Spina, that I saw in its beauty, 
and that nobody will ever see again! But I sup¬ 
pose it is natural that the Italian views should 
be those that take the greatest hold of me. (You 
see that I have no scruple about saying what I 
like best: I am not at all like an English lady 
who came to see me the other day—a shy, gentle, 
delicate-looking lady, not young, who talked 
about her pleasure in seeing the pictures here; 
and I unfortunately asked her who among the 
old masters were her especial favourites. She 
blushed, hesitated, and finally asked timidly: 
‘Do you like Perugino?’ I assured her that I 
did; at which she appeared relieved, and said: 
‘I am so glad you like him, because I do!’ 
Fratello, I have learned by long practice to keep 
my countenance through almost anything, but 
there was somethmg so unspeakably droll in the 
idea of my patronizing Perugino that it was 
really too much for me!) But to return to what 
I was saying—That Madonna della Spina 1 goes 


i The little chapel of Santa Maria della Spina in Pisa. Ruskin 
was very fond of this little chapel before its restoration. It was 
built in 1230 for sailors about to go to sea and was supposed to 
contain a piece of the crown of thorns. Ruskin mentions it several 
times in Traeterita and writes in Volume II, in connection with visit¬ 
ing Pisa, “ I drew the Spina chapel, with the Ponte a Mare beyond, 
very usefully and wen.” Sir Thomas Graham Jackson in his 
“ Gothic Architecture in France, England and Italy,” mentions the 
chapel as having been lately restored, and writes, “In spite of many 
beautiful details the design has in excess the redundancy of orna¬ 
ment into which Italian Gothic fell.” 



127 


RUSKIN’S DRAWINGS 

the most to my heart of all partly from the mel¬ 
ancholy interest attached to it, as a lovely 
shadow of what exists no longer, partly because 
I have felt so much all that you have written 
about it; and much for its wonderful representa¬ 
tion of what it would seem to me impossible to 
represent at all. (But why do you always speak 
so slightingly in the Praeterita of your own 
drawing ? Surely you must know that these are 
not things that any one could learn to do!) The 
view of the village under the snow-covered 
mountain (it looks like St. Fines) is strangely 
like a place near Bassano, and perhaps as beau¬ 
tiful as any. I can appreciate the way in which 
that mountain is drawn, perhaps all the better 
because I cannot do it myself and have tried so 
often and failed. The Aventine view is equally 
beautiful and truthful (according to my now 
far-away recollection) ; and only this minute I 
see that it bears the date 1841! You must have 
drawn it during that first visit to Rome of which 
I have just been reading and, after the way you 
have been writing about your early drawing, if I 
cared about being considered ‘ quite correct ’ I 
should not dare to say how much I admire it! 
The small pen drawings are beautiful also and 
wonderfully delicate; the clouds especially give 
me a great deal to think about. 

As for my own S. Rosa, she rather raised me 
in my own conceit, by being much prettier than 


128 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


I remembered the original: it was very kind in 
you to think of sending her to me. I am glad I 
have her, as she is a likeness of a little girl of 
whom I am very fond. But I must not say more, 
though there is much more that I want to say. 

As for Mammina , she is entirely overpowered 
by your kindness and the beauty of the draw¬ 
ings, and does not know how to thank you any 
better than I do. She joins with me in love, and 
I remain as ever 

' \ Your affectionate and most grateful 

Sorella 

\ 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
May 16, 1886. 

Darlingest Sorel: 

Your letters are just always the same de¬ 
lights to me, so you’re not to waste penwoman- 
ship in saying they’re not. 

Yes, the whole gist and kernel and end and 
middle and four sides of Fors is just that —that 
great lords and ladies should be as Enrichetta is. 

Some years since, one of our English upper- 
class girls married a Roman prince. She was 
staying at Broadlands, and I asked her how she 
was going to treat her people. ‘My people— 
what—up in the hills ? Oh, the Prince dares not 



PORTRAITS AND EMOTION 129 

go near them. They are all wretches and ban¬ 
ditti. We shall live in Rome.’ 

I’m better these last two or three days, but 
alas shall never climb hills more. I begin to like 
lying in bed in the morning and looking out at 
the sun on them! But I do think when I’m the 
least careful that my hand is improving, with my 
Sorel lessoning me day by day. 

Dear love to that Mammina the Unconfessing. 

I am not sure you should let people talk in the 
room about you as you do. I think it must hurt 
your nerve, though you can’t feel it. 

Ever your lovingest 

Fratel.” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
Sunday (I’m really getting to like 

it at last!!!) 

May 23,1886. 

Darling Sorel: 

I wrote yesterday—or was it the day be¬ 
fore ?—just to show you what a dreadful brother 
you’d got, which I know you hadn’t the remotest 
guess of, and it’s time you should; and please 
say to Ethel that I can see she’s millions of miles 
prettier than that when she brushes her hair 
smooth and isn’t cut out with scissors all round. 

But the fact is, Sorel—and this is quite seri¬ 
ous,—you mustn’t waste the spirit that is in you 
by doing portraits except in pictures of emo¬ 
tional subject, or when there is strong emotion 


130 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


about the person’s life. Isabella is grand, Bea¬ 
trice successful, Edwige lovely in the Zita sub¬ 
ject, St. Christopher the grandest of all. But 
you must work under emotion. 

Look up your legends of saints and form a 
consistent series to be illustrated. Or real his¬ 
tory of good people, like the Superior a, and put 
all the Ethels into little Bethels. 

Your friend Miss Lloyd has blazed out on me 
all at once like a tulip or an orange lily. I used 
to pooh-pooh and snub her awfully. But she’s 
doing grand things now! It must be your 
shadow, or light, or mantle, or glove, or glance, 
or something of that sort on her. O dear, I 
wish you could bring out what’s hi me like that. 
There’s such a lot that has never got out. (Be¬ 
sides the mischief.) 

What a horrid nuisance it is to have to send 
my letters to a Bank! Can’t you have a post 
office at some beautiful countess’s or duchess’s 
or saint’s or Sybil’s or Superiora’s or something 
of that sort? 

77 

• • • • 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
Sunday, May 30, 1886. 

Darling Sorel: 

Yes, the letter comes to its moment and I 
answer on the moment to say I am so thankful 
you are with the swallows and near that girl who 


THE INFLUENCE OF ENVIRONMENT 131 

sings stornelli, and in the care of Assunta and 
out of the way of ugly things, and to say that 
you are a foolish little Sorel to think you have 
done your best at Florence. The best will still be 
better, though you can’t much better the great 
drawings of the Songs. 

I am most thankful that you know how being 
among ugly things hurts the imagination, but 
there are some general principles for which you 
have to fix. And, as you so often tell me, you 
must rest—before you are tired, not after. 

I fancy I am really better, but am getting 
hypochondriacal by living alone and finding my¬ 
self fancying I can’t stir foot or finger, when I 
can walk, or scrawl pretty fast, if anything stirs 
me to it. Can’t scrawl more here, however, to¬ 
day. Only love to Mammina and to that girl who 
sings stornelli. And to the Swallows. 

And I’m your lonely and sorrowful 

Fratel.” 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
June 5, 1886. 

. . . I was doubly delighted this morn¬ 

ing— Sorella mia preziosissima —by seeing how 
much you wanted my letters, though they are 
such mere scrabbles and babbles. I’ve really had 
a nice day with your long letter saying you felt 
lonely for want of mine—and it came a day 
sooner than I expected,—and I’ve finished the 



132 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


fifth Praet, rather prettily I think, and I’ve had 
a sunny drive to a waterfall where I’m going to 
direct the building of a foot-bridge at the bottom 
—plank and single rail—and I went by a hill- 
road where there’s a family of children to open 
one gate. Joseph is the youngest, and then 
Annie, and Charlie, and Elizabeth, and Dinah— 
Dinah’s about nine, Joseph three. I took five 
new sixpences in my pocket for them, and two 
books—Richter’s child book and ‘Dame Wig¬ 
gins of The Cabbage Patch,’ and I got two 
kisses from Dinah and Elizabeth. 

Then I had a lovely tea in a small inn parlour, 
with door open to the road, and a very modest 
and gentle but extremely hungry dog, and then 
a saunter in afternoon sunshine among the 
rocks, feeling really quite well, and myself, 
though not active or boisterous. I brought home 
a tiresome water veronica though—which won’t 
look up and behave. 

Sunday. Yes, and I’m very much myself to¬ 
day, too, after a good sleep, and if that old 
letter’s lost, I’ll write you a better instead, but 
can’t say more today for I’ve got some scraps 
and scrubs to send off to tiresome people by this 
post. 

Your lovingest 

Fratd” 


DEGREES OF FRIENDSHIP 133 
Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“ Florence, 

June 17, 1886. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

Your letter this morning (of the 13th) 
was a very great pleasure; and I only wish I had 
time to answer it quietly, for I have even more 
than usual that I want to say today! But we are 
just preparing to leave, and everything is in con¬ 
fusion, and I have much more than I can do and 
am interrupted all the time, and must write my 
letter all in fragments. As for your calling your 
letters horrid; I suppose I cannot help your say¬ 
ing so if you will; but I would strongly advise 
any one else not to use such words about them 
before me. And when you speak of my ‘ heaps 
and bunches 9 etc. of ‘loving friends/ I can only 
say that I have only one Fratello. Not that I 
have so many friends either: of course, there are 
a good many people whom I like and who like 
me; but of the real, close friends who are a part 
of my life ... You told me once that you 
could count yours on your fingers, and I could 
almost count mine on the fingers of one hand! 
And then you go on with a list of your sins 
towards me, which would make any one think 
who did not know the truth that I had a perfect 
ogre of a brother! And because it really seems to 
me that you are a little bit in earnest, you must 
let me remind you of what you seem to have for¬ 
gotten. You say that you have ‘stolen’ the 


134 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


Superiora and S. Rosa; but I gave you S. Rosa 
and asked you to make any use you could of the 
Superiora. 1 (You wanted me to sell it to you, 
for several times its value, but I would not.) 
And then you paid me the great honour of 
putting it in Fors Clavigera, with some beautiful 
remarks of your own; which I think came a little 
nearer turning my head than anything else that 
ever happened to me. As for the drawings which 
you think of sending me some day, I am very 
glad that Miss Kate Greenaway, or any of your 
other friends, should enjoy them first: they will 
be very precious and welcome to me when they 
come. And I am so very glad that you begin to 
feel like drawing something more! That seems 
as if you were really beginning to feel well, as in 
the old times. About Polissena ... if you 
did not mind, I wish that you would leave her 
a little longer. At least I will tell you what I am 
thinking about. When I go to Bassano, where 
I hope we shall go in the autumn, for the cholera 
seems to be dying away, I am going to try to 
collect and write down all the particulars about 
that wonderful woman Catina da Rivolta, 2 whose 
children are still living in the neighbourhood, 
and to draw a sketch of the church that she built. 
And I am almost sure that you will want to print 
it; so, as it will be very short, why could you not 


1 The stories of the Superiora called the Mother of the Orphans. 

2 Catina da Rivolta in Christ’s Folk in the Apennine. 


UNCONVENTIONAL ANGELS 135 

put it with Polissena ? At least, would it not be 
better to let Polissena wait until you see whether 
you like Catinaf But this is only an idea of 
mine and you know best. You wrote to me a 
while ago that you were thinking of printing the 
Superiora, with the picture, in some separate 
form; but I did not understand quite what you 
meant. But it would not make a large book to 
put all the three little stories together; however, 
perhaps you have some different idea about 
them. If you can use any of them about any¬ 
thing that you are writing yourself, you know 
that I should be very thankful. When you think 
of all that you have done for me, in so many 
ways, I think you will understand what a great 
pleasure it is to me whenever anything that I do 
can be of the smallest help to you in your own 
work. 

Love from Mammina as always, and from 

Your affectionate 

Sorella.” 

“All’ Abetone, 

Di 3 Agosto, 1886. 

. . . You know angels have to be drawn 

from boys of sixteen or seventeen years old; and 
boys of that age, up here, besides being painfully 
shy and stiff, have a fashion of cutting their hair 
close to their heads so they look as if they wore 
black velvet skull caps; and they all smoke pipes, 


136 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


and in consequence bring certain unusual odours 
into my little room, which perhaps I am rather 
too particular to have neat and nice. 

We have just done with the annual festa here; 
and one man, who was in prison for a quarrel 
with the guards (the people here are always 
going to prison for such things, but he is a very 
good man) was let out so late that he could only 
arrive in the evening after the fair was over. He 
was not in a penitent state of mind, and informed 
me loftily that he had ‘gone in with his honour 
and come out with his honour.’ And he said that 
he would have Jus S. Leopoldo the next day; and 
in consequence lounged about all day doing 
nothing, in his Sunday clothes, and looked miser¬ 
ably tired in the evening. I think he was glad 
enough to put on his checked shirt and go to 
work today. He did not lose much though, with 
the festa; for there was hardly anything going 
on, and I am afraid that the cake and candy sold 
were not of the first quality. For I remember 
one day when I took a walk down through the 
village, and passed a man sitting on a bridge, 
with a basket of just such cake. He pressed me 
very hard to buy it, and when I declined, he said, 
‘But nobody buys it, and I have had nothing to 
eat all day! ’ I was sorry for the poor man, but 
I was a good way from home, and had no money, 
and I did not quite know what to do. So after 
thinking a minute, I said, ‘Why do you not eat 


MORE ABOUT ANGELS 


137 


some of the cake?’ I did not mean to be impo¬ 
lite ; but I wish you could have seen the look of 
mingled disgust, contempt and wounded dignity 
with which my suggestion was received! He 
answered loftily, ‘I don’t eat such stuff as that!’ 
Now, Fratello, I have been running on so long 
and I am afraid I have written too much; but 
now I must stop! You may imagine, it is not 
very easy to ‘stop’ after being obliged to stop 
for so long; but you will not be quite strong for 
some time, and if my letter should tire you, 
Joanie would not let me write again, who knows 
when! 

Your affectionate 

Sorella.” 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
Sunday, August, 1886. 

Darling Sorel: 

I have Mammina’s letter about my illness 
and yours about angels, neither of you knowing 
much about the several topics. I am not going 
to say more of my illness than that it lost me the 
roses, bell heather, and fox-gloves; and of angels 
only this (which you ought to have known with¬ 
out being told, you absurd little Sorel! I’ve 
really no patience with you, for once). You can 
make an angel of any good and sensible man, 


138 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


woman, boy, girl, or beast (as the four of 
Ezekiel) but you can’t of a beastly boy who 
smokes. This is really the mam thing I’ve to 
say to you, and it is very serious. 

The pretty stories in your letters, above all the 
meeting of the two sibyls, are beyond even their 
usual loveliness, and of infinite value to me. I 
am going on with botany and natural history. 

Ever your lovingest and gratefullest, and 
Mammina 9 s wilfullest 

fratel and figlio, J. R. ” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
August 15, 1886. 

Darlingest Sorel: 

Your exquisite letter is the best of sum¬ 
mer to me. We have had no summer here, but 
the sun I want is just what you give me—love, 
and trust, and sympathy. I am so alone now. 
As my strength returns, I find more and more 
use in my old diaries and drawings. The last 
half of the autobiography ought to be better than 
the first if I am yet spared to finish it, and get 
in order the drawings and books that belong to 
it. 

I suppose you have my cross note about the 
smoking boys by this time! 

Ever your naughty and vexatious 

Pratel. 

Dearest love to Mammina . I don’t know how 
naughty she is, you know—she won’t tell me!” 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 


139 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
August 29, 1886. 

Sorella carissima, and dilettissima, and de- 
lightfullestest, I don’t know quite, or at all, how 
to put that last word into Italian and I don’t 
clearly know what dilettissima means, or if it 
means anything; only it can’t possibly mean too 
much—you never did write me such a delicious 
letter as this about Polissena 1 and her horse, 
with the comforting bits about myself, both your 
sayings and Mammina’s; and I’m going to 
church upon it. But the day was a dilett- and 
elet-tissima one altogether. I had my little shep¬ 
herdess carrying wood for me in the morning, 
and then Violet, whose birthday it was, asking 
me in the most flattering way to come to her tea, 
with birthday cake for me to help her to cut, and 
then before tea I was wood-cutting again, and 
gathered her a lovely cluster of nuts, and 
rhymed a little rhyme on them for her. I can’t 
write rispetti, but this was my little rhyme: 

Dear Violet, for your birthday’s good 
I graft a moral on my wood, 

That Life with all its ‘Ifs’ and ‘Buts’ 

Is first like almonds, then like nuts. 

In early spring we can’t but think 
Its blossoms will be always pink. 

Then—when the dainty colour’s lacking 
Its lessons need sagacious cracking. 

Wise Violets, from their rough externals 
Educe, with care, the sweetest kernels. 

1 From The Peace of Polissena. Christ’s Folk in the Apennine. 



140 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

Then I went and dressed! and put a bouquet 
of pansies in my buttonhole, Violet dancing all 
the while outside the door. So when I came out, 
she partly pulled and partly fascinated me all 
the way upstairs to the nursery, where all the 
beauty of Brantwood was at its brightest: Lily, 
a little subdued in her print frock that she might 
not rival Violet, but Baby, who is Violet’s coad¬ 
jutor and abettor in all things, considering it his 
birthday as much as hers, and in a state of Tri¬ 
umph and Superintendence of all things—mar¬ 
vellous to behold. 

The two boys are really very beautiful, too, in 
their entire sweetness of disposition and activity 
of every atom and fibre in soul and body. Joanie 
was—what you may fancy—as she looked at 
them all. Clennie, Mistress of the room and its 
duties and delights, and hostess of the feast, gave 
me for once welcome—and even a smile. 

I held Violet’s hand to cut the cake, which was 
garlanded with pansies. It had been sent down 
for the birthday by my chief college pupil and 
friend and editor, Alec Wedderburn, who never 
forgets the children. It was an entirely rational 
cake, and wholesome, and nobody felt wicked in 
asking or giving another slice. The sun shone in 
at the large windows, and lighted a piece of rain¬ 
bow-coloured stone, half violet, half orange-rose 
(you have that colour in the Apennine rainbows, 
as we in Coniston ones?) which I had brought 
for a present to Violet, with four other stones of 


CAT IN A 


141 


festive character for her to give her sister and 
brothers. Baby ’s was a baby crystal with a house 
of its own, which it usually lived in, like this: 

and Baby was unlimitedly de¬ 
lighted with it. 

When I came down again 
to my lonely study, I found 
vour letter! and read the 
story of the horse to Joan and Clennie and Bid- 
die in the evening. And for good-night—behold, 
there came a pretty coloured photograph of the 
rose queen of the Irish school! 

And —I am at the end of my paper, for once, 
and all I Ve really to say must be said tomorrow. 

Mammina and your most thankful 

J. R.” 



“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
November 10, 1886. 

Sweetest Sorel: 

I have been reading Catina to my own 
little woodgirl—with help in it for both of us. 
I want it ever so much more than she, for I’m 
in an extremely dismal and restless state just 
now, and ought to be brought into a better mind 
by Catina. A real Catina would do it as fast as 
she liked, but I can’t Catina myself. 

I am resolved to bring out Polissena and 
Catina and some more of those stories for 
Christmas, and to give up everything for them 






142 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


till I see them safe. I Ve sent Catina to my god¬ 
daughter to copy at once. 

Dearest love to Mammina . Perhaps you and 
she will have to come to look after me in the 
spring. 

Your lovingest Pratel. ’ * 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
November 21, 1886. 

Sweetest Sorel: 

IVe been reading your lovely letters over 
again all the sunny morning—about Enrichetta 
and Rosita and the homely count and countess 
who frightened the nameless Englishman into 
the corner and then thought he had looked down 
on their homeliness, and poor Boni going back 
to Venice from the long hoped German tour. 

And I never give up anything, nor go into any 
misery, nor run any danger that I can help, and 
I’m so ashamed of myself. How my Mammina 
and Sorella can care for me the least bit I can’t 
think. 

Now here the new Sunday one with the lovely 
account of the King and Queen. I am so thank¬ 
ful; Heaven keep them both. And the pretty 
story of Guido. And Mammina’s was lovely yes¬ 
terday. 

And I am very thankful for both of you, and 
will try to keep what you give me of hope— 
through whatever troubles me. 

Ever your lovingest 


Fratello 




BURNE-JONES 


143 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
November 28, 1886. 

Sweetest Sorel: 

I am comforted—in the depth of various 
discomfiture and despair!—by having your let¬ 
ters to read over, and the extreme gladness of 
knowing that I may do what I want with them- 
without displeasing you. Of course, when I get 
the gatherings into slip, they shall be sent to you 
that you may cancel whatever you see to be pos¬ 
sibly harmful. There will be plenty of exquisite 
material. 

Mammina has been writing me such lovely 
letters and patting and saying good day to me 
till I’m regularly walking on my hind legs. But 
the things you wonder I say of myself are deeply 
true for all that. I thought to have lived a 
grand, monkish, benevolently cheerful life, and 
here I am at 67 . . . 

Ever your poor little 

Eratel.” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
November 30, 1886. 

Darlingest Sorel: 

Yes, the ‘Ned’ letter is Burne-Jones, 
whose faults and virtues do justly bring on him 
praise and blame both warm and bitter. I send 
you today a present of a good photograph from 
his drawing of Miss Gladstone, by which you will 
be able to judge of his character and power but, 


144 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


alas, not of his colour. I must try to get his 
daughter to send me a bit for you. 

I hope this writing is bad enough, I have done 
rather a lot today; a nice little preface to Polis- 
sena to begin with, and a lot of more or less 
pathetic or prettyish ones besides (letters, not 
prefaces). 

I’ma little better today though, for bright sun 
and north wind, and ever your ownest 

Fratel. 

Please, for once I must send you friends to call 
on you. 

J. M. Rooke and his excellent and submissive 
wife are coming to Florence almost immediately, 
he to draw things for me and see what is left of 
all that I loved and that he will love. You will 
find him modest, tender, and intelligent in the 
deepest, deepest degree. You will rejoice in his 
work, and you will confer all grace on me as well 
as on him in every little piece of household 
advice or other help that you and Mammina give 
him, or his . . 

Mr. Ruskin to Mrs. Alexander: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
December 22,1886. 

Darlingest Mamie: 

I’ve just got your loveliest note. I ? ve 
written a little exercise for my shepherdess 
which I rather like. Here’s a fair copy of it. I 


145 


AT THE CROOK OF LUNE 

didn’t do it to any words, but if you like, you 
know, you may get any one to sing ‘Fare thee 
well and if forever,’ etc., to it. 

Ever your lovingest 

Figlio” 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
December 27,1886. 

Darlingest Mammina: 

But it’s too cruel of you not to pity me 
because I wrote the song of the Isle of Skye! If 
you only heard the tune in B-flat, I’m sure your 
heart would be melted! I’m putting in a few 
more pathetic words before I send it to you, but 
here are the words, complete (over page). 

Aggie is another pretty girl, just eighteen, 
much slighter than C., and a lovely tennis player, 
who lives usually at the Crook of Lune. But 
she’s gone to Germany just now. Jane, Anne, 
and some of the schoolgirls I have now regularly 
to learn anything they like to on Saturday after¬ 
noons, and then I let them lay the cloth and give 
themselves tea in my study. 

Dear love to Sorel; her letter is so precious to 
me just now, to fill in with the new bit of Paolina 
at the end of the story of Catina, 1 which I give in 
next number under the title ‘Pensatevi Voi / 

Ever your lovingest 

Figlio.” 


1 Christ ’8 Folk in the Apennine. 


146 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


“In the Isle of Skye 
The girls are shy 
And out of tune 
By the Crook of Lune 
And they can’t tell why, 

But the balls go awry 
And they can’t play tennis 
—Neither Aggie, nor Clennies— 
With the Stones of Venice 
A-standing by.” 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“Florence, February 3, 1887. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

It was a great comfort to receive your 
kind letter, just when I was not expecting it, 
with such good news of you. I have had a short 
but very friendly letter from Sig. Boni, who is 
happy because some English society is going to 
publish his work on the Cad’oro; and he is pre¬ 
paring now a book that I think will be very in¬ 
teresting, a reconstruction of Venice as it must 
have been in the fifteenth century, with a plan of 
the city by Albert Durer. He sent me also his 
photograph, which a friend of his took without 
his leave or knowledge one day when he was su¬ 
perintending the photographing of a campanile 
. . . one of the best likenesses that ever I saw. 
Today it is rainy and gloomy, and I am glad of 
it, because it is the Candelabra, and if it rains to¬ 
day the winter is over. Not that I can complain 


REFLECTED LUSTRE 


147 


much of the winter this year, for I have tea-roses 
and hyacinths in blossom on the terrace in the 
open air, and my first crocus out two days ago. 
But people say that the open winter has not been 
healthy, and nearly all the children whom I 
know have been ill. Santa Rosa’s little brother 
has been very ill, but is out of danger now. He 
is a very gay, bright little fellow, with wonderful 
black eyes; and he does not like at all having to 
lie still and take medicine. They gave him a lit¬ 
tle wooden gun to induce him to be quiet, and he 
was delighted with it and would keep it always 
in his bed. Yesterday he called his mother and 
told her that he wished she would load his 
gun. 

She asked him what he wanted to do with it; 
and he replied, very seriously, ‘I want to shoot 
the doctor!’ I tell you this, thinking that you 
may possibly sympathize with him. 

I was not able to finish this yesterday, and to¬ 
day I take up my pen while I am awaiting the 
visit of an English lady, of whom I do not even 
know the name, but she is staying in the same 
hotel with Marina, who has told her of your 
kindness to me (which poor dear Marina is al¬ 
ways boasting of to everybody) and the good 
lady, who is one of your adorers, wishes to see 
me, with, I suppose, an idea that I shall have 
some reflected lustre about me; and in anticipa¬ 
tion I am feeling quite sorry for her disappoint¬ 
ment. 


148 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


I had almost forgotten to tell you that Bishop 
Potter from America has been to Florence 
and astonished everybody by preaching on the 
story of Ida! Ethel Bronson lent it to him 
one Saturday, and the next day he made it the 
subject of a sermon. I was not there, but was 
pleased when I heard of the honour paid to my 
friend. 

I have been interrupted by such a succession 
of visitors! For the proverb came true, and the 
spring really seems to be upon us all at once to¬ 
day, so everybody is out of doors. One brought 
me a lovely bunch of lilies-of-the-valley (my fa¬ 
vourite flowers, because they grew in my grand¬ 
mother’s garden under her window) and an¬ 
other, a stranger, has carried off (in a state of 
wild enthusiasm) a very unfinished sketch of S. 
Rosa’s head, because she says it has eyes ‘like 
her blessed Harry,’ whoever he may be. I have 
barely time now to wish you every blessing and 
happiness for your birthday, now close at 
hand. 

I think it finds you better and stronger than 
the same day last year; and I hope and pray, as 
does Mammina, that it may be the beginning of a 
healthy, peaceful, and happy year to you. Love 
from us both. 

• , Ever your affectionate 

Sordid” 


PUZZLEMENT 


149 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
February 7, 1887. 

Sweetest Sorel: 

Only time to thank you for the story of 
St. Rosa’s brother and to tell you my snowdrops 
are out, and I’m no good for letters or books or 
anything. The day is dazzling, gold-coloured 
mountains and blue lake with the sort of breeze 
on it that stays for an hour in the middle of it 
and never gets to the shore; or stays under the 
shore and never gets to the middle. And Catina 
isn’t out yet, but I shall get it done this week, I 
trust. 

I’m still keeping well, and Miss Greenaway is 
here now and very restive about everything I 
want her to do, which keeps me in my own 
proper contradictory element. 

Your Fratello ” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
February 20, 1887. 

Sweetest Sorel: 

It is so nice you like my letters, and would 
miss them, but it does so puzzle me. We were 
both of us born to be puzzled, it seems. There’s 
scarcely ever anything in my letters but a 
scrawled grumble! But my birthday was very 
nice. I have a quantity of pleasures every day, 
if I could only be content. You see, the mischief 


150 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

of it is that I Ve lost all hope of the next world, 
feeling that I’ve had more than I deserve, in¬ 
finitely more, in this one. 

Meantime, I am still of some use certainly, 
but I am ashamed of the failure of all my great 
plans and the overestimate of my own powers. 

Your poor 

Fratello” 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“ Florence, April 21, 1887. 

. . . I wrote you of the Sette Comuni and 

of its beautiful city of Marostica. But I have 
not yet told you anything about the Madonna, 
how she is loved, and what a place she holds in 
the hearts of my Asiago friends. Gallio has its 
Madonna, too; noted for her diamond brooch and 
earrings, which were vowed to her by a rich 
gentleman of the town during the illness of his 
son. It was said that he promised her these 
ornaments in the event of his son’s recovery. 
The boy died; but he gave her the jewels all the 
same. I have told you, I think, that the Gallio 
and Asiago people are none too friendly. There 
is a very narrow bridge, over a very narrow 
brook, which marks the division line between the 
two states; and nobody on one side of the bridge 
will marry any one on the other, and even the 
language is said to be somewhat different. I am 
sorry to say that the rivalry extends even to the 


RIVAL MADONNAS 151 

Madonnas! Now, as I said before, when we 
went to Asiago there was great suffering from 
drought; and, as one week after another passed 
and no rain came, things grew more serious. 
Fountain after fountain dried, and each day the 
stream at the great fountain in the Piazza grew 
less, and the women had to wait longer before 
their pitchers were filled. In the distant pas¬ 
tures, away among the mountains, water had 
failed almost entirely . . . the herdsmen, so 
people said, drank nothing but a little milk that 
they might save all the water for their precious 
cattle! The Sette Comuni people, like Catina, 
think to accomplish everything by prayer; and 
the services in church were incessant. Proces¬ 
sions were constantly passing, for the most part 
at night, chanting litanies in sad voices; the light 
of their torches flashing up on my ceiling as they 
went by. Even the children caught the general 
feeling and had little processions of their own, 
with a small wooden Madonna and a cross and 
banners of cut paper made by themselves; chant¬ 
ing with a solemnity that showed it was by no 
means play, but very grave reality to them. At 
length it was resolved that the whole population 
should go in procession, and carry the Madonna 
in solemn state to pay a visit to the Grallio Ma¬ 
donna. It was confidently expected that the 
weather would change immediately afterwards. 
And so Asiago was pretty much deserted that 
night. 


152 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


Men and women, boys and girls, priests and 
people, all assembled at the church; and the Ma¬ 
donna, seated in an armchair, was borne on the 
shoulders of some of the principal men, all the 
way to Grallio. The next day everybody was 
looking for clouds. People’s hearts almost 
failed, and no one could help feeling the general 
sadness. But one remedy still remained; and 
one of those hot, cloudless nights, another long 
procession of bareheaded men and white-veiled 
women came over the road from Grallio, bearing 
the Grallio Madonna . . . come to return the 
Asiago Madonna’s visit! And the next morning 
there were a few white clouds over the blue. 
Everybody was out in the road, or at the win¬ 
dows, watching those clouds in breathless anx¬ 
iety . . . and before night, the rain was pour¬ 
ing down like a flood, on city and country; and 
the terrible visitation of the drought was over! 
There were great rejoicings; not, however, un¬ 
mixed with mortification on the part of the Asi¬ 
ago people, that the blessing should have been 
sent in favour to the Grallio Madonna instead of 
theirs. So the remainder of our stay in the 
country was much pleasanter than the first part 
had been: the fields grew green and were 
sprinkled with flowers. 

I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry that 
you are so busy. I am thankful that you feel like 
working, but always fear lest you should do too 
much, especially when you are alone. I heard 



Used by kind permission of Houghton Mifflin Co. 


Madonna and Child 

From “Tuscan Songs ” 





























































































































































UNEDUCATED FLIES 153 

of you the other day in an unexpected quarter. 
A friend of mine went to Assisi, and the sacris¬ 
tan at the church there did nothing but talk 
about you, with the greatest affection, and 
showed her your portrait, which he keeps in the 
sagrestia. 

Florence is all excitement now about the festas 
in May for the completion of the Duomo: the 
King and Queen are coming, and the streets 
(they say) are all to be dressed with flowers, in 
honour of Santa Maria del Fiore. I only hope 
the new front may be worthy of the rest, but that 
will be difficult. 

Those famous columbines are all bursting out 
on the terrace . . . and the bees seem to think 
they have the first right in them, and give mani¬ 
fest signs that I am not wanted, whenever I go 
out for a look. They remind me of Edwige’s 
very dignified and moderate reproof of the flies, 
one hot day, when they kept buzzing into her 
face and eyes so that she could hardly go on with 
her knitting. ‘Poor things! one sees that they 
have not a shadow of education V 

But I must end this, only hoping that you will 
have patience to read it; and next week we will 
have one of the usual gossips of more reasonable 
length. Meanwhile, love, as ever, from Mam - 
mina and 

Your affectionate 

Sorella” 


154 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

“Di 18 Maggio, 1887. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

Here is another week gone by, in which 
little has been accomplished ... a week of 
confusion and noise, all Florence gone wild, no¬ 
body to attend to anything, and people coming 
in from all parts of the country! Every railroad 
arrival brought in a perfect river of people; and 
where they went, or how provisions were found 
for them is to me a mystery. It has all been very 
grand; but I am glad that tomorrow is the last 
day. People said that the Corso of flowers was 
as lovely as anything could be, but I did not go 
to see it. I only saw some of the people coming 
away from it, with horses and carriages en¬ 
twined with garlands. I have not been to see 
anything, excepting the front of the Duomo; but 
the passeggiata storica went by here, and was 
much more beautiful than I had ever imagined 
possible. Mammina wrote you all about it; so I 
will only say that I never had any idea before 
how very unbecoming the present style of dress 
is. I wonder what people wear it for! I had 
always supposed that people were better looking 
in old times than now; but these Florentines of 
the present day, in their ancient dresses, were as 
handsome as any of the old pictures. Not only 
the representatives of great families, in their 
rich brocades and magnificent armor, but those 
of the poorer sort—for all the trades were repre¬ 
sented : carpenters, blacksmiths, goldsmiths, etc., 


A JOURNALISTIC BIOGRAPHY 


155 


each trade with its appropriate banner, and 
dresses copied from pictures of the fourteenth 
century and worn by people of the same calling. 
No wonder people could paint grand pictures in 
those times! The King and Queen went to 
Lucca for one day, and were fairly overpowered 
by the affection of the people. People said that 
they saw the King in tears, twice over. They 
had only a few hours to see everything; but con¬ 
trived to make one long visit, and that was at the 
hospital, where they stayed a great while, talk¬ 
ing with the sick people, and distributing money. 
All the contadini came down from the moun¬ 
tains, and were so wild in their enthusiasm that 
some of them were near losing their lives; for 
they sprang up on to the outside of the car when 
the King and Queen were going away, and held 
on for some time without minding the entreaties 
of the guards, who saw their danger! 

I do think you will laugh when you know what 
happened to me this morning. A package was 
brought me by the post, from the office of a 
weekly newspaper in New York, which con¬ 
tained nothing less than a printed biographical 
notice of myself! All a romance, from beginning 
to end, and of the most poetical description. I 
learn, to my great astonishment, that I am 
Italian born, but of an English mother, that I 
live in a stone palace, up seven flights of stairs, 
that my ‘studio’ is hung with ancient tapestries, 
that I have blue eyes, that Edwige (described as 


156 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


a ‘rosy peasant’ sitting perpetually on the land¬ 
ing place outside of my door among the flowers 
and canaries) is my nurse! And much more 
equally valuable information. A model, whom 
the writer professes to have met in my room, by 
name, Tessa, is a pure invention; and I am told 
that she carried a half-naked baby, which, at a 
sign from me, she laid down on the carpet. I 
hope I don’t treat poor little babies like that, 
when they are brought to see me! And then the 
view from my windows! It combined Fiesole 
and the Arno (in two opposite directions, and I 
don’t see either of them!). 

I hardly know how to write intelligibly today, 
for since it is the Ascension, and gran festa, my 
room has been constantly full of company, 
speaking different languages at the same time, 
all strangers to each other and all expecting a 
great deal of attention. So you must excuse all 
mistakes. Good-bye. Love from Mammina and 

Yours affectionately, 

Sorella” 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
May 22,1887. 

Sweetest and dearest of S or els: 

Verily, I am in strong, stern, rapidly but 
securely working energy in every necessary way, 
and receiving lessons every hour which gather 


AN INVITATION TO BRANTWOOD 157 

into focus my former work and life. I keep 
steady on the chapter of Praeterita, La Grande 
Chartreuse, and am happy among imagined 
Alps. 

Your account of the King and Queen at Lucca 
is really the most delicious thing for me person¬ 
ally (loving Lucca as I do) you ever wrote to 
me. The Last Chapter of Praeterita is to be the 
Hills of Carraca, and this letter shall be the best, 
D. Y. 

Dear love to that angelic but too easily taken 
in Mammina, and I’m your comforted 

Fratello. 

So proud of his sister.” 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
June 11,1887. 

Sweetest Sorel: 

I can walk farther than last year, and 
have lately had lovely weather for the hills and 
brooks. 

A true friend, and of long standing, Mrs. 
Firth of Ambleside, who has lately lost her aged 
and deeply cherished mother, is therefore able 
to come and stay at Brantwood and help me in 
all manner of ways. I was very nearly asking 
Mammina and you to come the other day! 
Would you, by any chance, like to come and see 
Brantwood while its Master can yet show you 
the glades of it ? It might be an interpretation 


158 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

of us to each other, such as all our writing could 
never be! 

I can’t write more today, except only to thank 
you from my innermost heart for allowing me to 
copy and print the pieces of your letters which 
tell so much of what is dearest to you. 

Dear love to Mammina. 

Ever your endlessly grateful 

Fratello. 

This is by way of answer to your St. Christo¬ 
pher letter received today! It is full of benedic¬ 
tion to me. What you say of the mosaics, so 
precious, and please give my deep love and 
thanks to Signor Bortolo, and in good time to 
the priest who translated Pensatevi Voi. I 
never understand what the vi is myself.” 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
June 19,1887. 

Sweetest Sorel: 

In yesterday’s writing I had no word for 
the goodness to me of all that Signor Boni is do¬ 
ing. I got his ‘Miracoli’ the day before yester¬ 
day. He knows I am with him in all he thinks 
and contends for, and that his own personal suc¬ 
cess and happiness and fame (I fear he does not 
enough know this) are indeed more to me than 
any confirmation given to my own work. For 
indeed you have taught me how I missed the 


RELICS OF SAINTHOOD 


159 


true life and glory of Italy today, while I stum¬ 
bled among her tombs. 

Ever your poor 

Fratel.” 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 


“ Venezia, Di 25 Giugno, 1887. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

I thank you a thousand times for your 
kind words about my dear Angelina: all that I 
said about her is true, and a great deal more; 
and if you print her story, I think there would 
be no harm in giving her whole name: Angelina 
Puccio: it would please a great many in Florence 
who loved her, and it would be a comfort to her 
husband that you should pay such honour to her 
memory. But please do not say such words to 
me as (I am ashamed to repeat it!) that you 
wonder at my taking you for Fratello! There 
are some things I don’t like to hear, even from 
you. 

I was interrupted just here by a visit from the 
future Mrs. Carloforti, with her mother and sis¬ 
ter. I think you would have been edified to hear 
their conversation about you. You know Vene¬ 
tians have a way of expressing themselves 
warmly. The old lady says that you are a saint, 
and people ought to cut your coat into little 
pieces and wear them for relics. 

The truth is, your letter came too late for me 
to answer it today, and now I can only send you 


160 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


love from Mammina, and the same from your 
affectionate 

Sorella” 

“ Florence, December 22, 1887. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

All this day I have been trying to find a 
moment to sit down and write to you; and all 
day long it has been one procession in and out of 
my room. . . . Contadine friends with Christ¬ 
mas presents of fruit and flowers, children who 
have learned Christmas hymns, and come to re¬ 
cite them, the procaccio from Abetone with a 
basket of chestnuts and the usual bag of chestnut 
flour from Polissena . . . and finally a lady 
who wished to buy a portrait of Paolina to make 
a present to somebody else. And I have laid my 
hands on all the available dishes and baskets in 
the house, and my room is a singular combina¬ 
tion of gaiety and disorder; but at last they have 
left me alone, and I can sit down, very tired and 
very happy, to think over your letter of this 
morning. But it is almost evening now, so I 
shall have to leave most of what I want to say 
until tomorrow. Only I cannot let the day end 
without saying how very thankful I am for all 
the good news! I said in my last that I hoped 
we might have a blessed Christmas; and now it 
seems to be coming very full of blessings. 

Fratello, it will be indeed a very great pleas¬ 
ure if I can see you once again! I had quite 


PLANS FOR AN ITALIAN VISIT 161 

given up the hope, though never the wish; and 
I have wished it all the more because when I saw 
you five years ago I did not know you as I do 
now, and could only half enjoy your visit, being 
foolishly frightened and confused. How little I 
thought, for a moment, that it was possible I 
might ‘ repent ’ of having you for my Fratello? 
You have always been so good to me! And even 
if you had been different, it would have been all 
the same; for I cannot change towards my 
friends, once they are my friends, even if I 
wanted to . . . and I never do want to! I 
suppose you must mean because you have been 
ill, and in trouble sometimes ... at least, I 
cannot think what else you mean . . . but, do 
you not know that those have been the very times 
when I have cared most for being Sorella? Do 
you know, just at first, when I was rather slow 
about taking up that name, I was a little afraid 
that yon might repent; because I knew that you 
thought me a great deal better than I was, and 
I was afraid when you found out . . . Well, 
never mind; you will never change your mind 
now any more than I shall. But I wish Joanie 
and her family would come into Italy, too; I 
should so like to see them! Especially Joanie, 
who has been so kind to me; and as yet I know 
her only by letter, though she is so dear a friend! 

Giannina wishes very much to see you, and al¬ 
ways tells me to send you her salnti, and ask you 
to pray for her poor husband. 


164 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


and to know; and so much to answer that I do 
not know where to begin! But first of all I want 
to thank you for calling me Sister in English, 
which I somehow feel means more to you than 
the same word in Italian: and if the English for 
Brother had more reality to me than the Italian, 
I would use it, too; but Italian is in some ways 
more my language than English, and ‘Fratello’ 
seems to come to me more naturally. But I will 
call you anything you please. . . . Nothing 
can ever make it any more (or less) real to me! 

And now I want to tell you that spring has 
turned the corner and today I have the first pur¬ 
ple anemones, also piedigallo and daisies! Only 
think . . . the eleventh of January, and after 
all that snow! I don’t know what you call piedi¬ 
gallo in English, but I think it is a sort of 
aconite: it is yellow and has a dark stem, and a 
delicate honey perfume, and grows in clusters 
close to the ground, and the blossoms come up 
before the leaves. Stay . . . here is one 
. . . you will (I hope) know what I mean! 
This was sent me yesterday, with some others, 
by an invalid lady whom I never saw. But she 
had been reading the Roadside Songs and un¬ 
derstood, by my drawings of flowers, how much 
I cared for them, and so sent me her very first 
spring flowers! And I felt her kindness so much 
that I could not help telling you. Your letters 
seemed sad to me, but I hope it was only because 
you had been reading over poor Rosie’s letters. 


THE VALUE OF FRIENDS 165 

Of course I have always understood that none of 
the others could ever make her loss good to you; 
but you would not want them to, would you? I 
think if we could ever forget our treasures in 
Heaven or fill up their places here with anything 
earthly, that would be a greater loss than when 
they died. (And if the world cannot make us 
forget them, it is not likely that Heaven makes 
them forget us.) But we can be thankful for 
what we have left to brighten our journey to its 
end, and the good Lord always leaves us some¬ 
thing. You have Joanie, and her children. I 
doubt if you ever quite knew yourself how dear 
she was to you, until she was ill last year. One 
finds out, at such times, just what our friends are 
to us; as I have had proof in my own life, only 
too often! 

You were very kind to write so large, for the 
sake of my eyes; but I never have any trouble 
in reading your writing; and, besides, my eyes 
are really very well now. As soon as the days 
are a little longer, and warm enough to have the 
windows open (which will be very soon now) I 
am going to try my drawing again. No wonder 
you cannot imitate ‘ cloud lace/ to say nothing 
of the flowers and jewels of that country; but 
your works represent it to me, as closely as it can 
be represented. 

Good-bye for now! Mammina sends love and 
the same as ever from your affectionate 

Sorella” 


162 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


Edwige brought me so many flowers this morn¬ 
ing. . . . She came in the omnibus because it 
rained, and the conductor asked her to give him 
a bit of sweet geranium ‘for good luck.’ He 
said, ‘Somebody gave me a sprig yesterday, and 
I had seventy centesimi in presents in the course 
of the day; and that is something, for the chil¬ 
dren/ 

And here is another friend and more flowers 
. . . it is no use, I must stop! And I had 

not half finished answering your letter! But 
I must thank you for painting skies for me! 
You know already how much I care for them; 
only pray do not work too hard, just as you are 
beginning to be strong. And I am thankful that 
Praeterita is going on, and I should like to thank 
you, if I knew how, for your kindness in carry¬ 
ing on that and the stories of my poor friends 
together. 

I wish you every possible blessing for Christ¬ 
mas, the Peace of God first, and then good 
health, and good news from every one whom you 
love (which I have come to look on as the great¬ 
est of earthly blessings) and success in all that 
you try to do for others; and if you can think of 
anything else to wish for, I hope it may come to 
you. 

Love from Mammina and from your affection¬ 
ate and happy 


Sorella.” 


163 


JEWELS FOR THE MUSEUM 
Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“ Sunday, 8th, Jan., —88. 

Dearest Sister: 

I use the English word for greater clear¬ 
ness and because I am so thankful you liked my 
New Year’s letter and that I am a brother who 
can make you happy with even his weary and 
broken words. 

Mammina’s letter yesterday was most com¬ 
forting to me in saying that she is pleased with 
me for giving up all for Joanie’s sake, and in 
saying that you and she both knew how I suf¬ 
fered when she was ill. Yes—that was the worst 
time of all my life. 

My Sorel and Mammina may like to see en¬ 
closed labels for British Museum. They can’t 
have the stones if they don’t allow labels. The 
diamond cost me £1000, but of course is fine only 
as a Museum specimen. The ruby cost me only 
£100, but is I believe the finest known, in native 
crystal, in Europe. The rose-fluors cost me £6, 
but are also unmatched. 

Ever your lovingest 

Fratel.” 

Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“Florence, Di 12 Gennaio, 1888. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

Your letter this morning came to give me 
a happy day, full of all that I most cared to read 


164 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


and to know; and so much to answer that I do 
not know where to begin! But first of all I want 
to thank you for calling me Sister in English, 
which I somehow feel means more to you than 
the same word in Italian: and if the English for 
Brother had more reality to me than the Italian, 
I would use it, too; but Italian is in some ways 
more my language than English, and ‘Fratello’ 
seems to come to me more naturally. But I will 
call you anything you please. . . . Nothing 
can ever make it any more (or less) real to me! 

And now I want to tell you that spring has 
turned the corner and today I have the first pur¬ 
ple anemones, also piedigallo and daisies! Only 
think • . . the eleventh of January, and after 
all that snow! I don’t know what you call piedi¬ 
gallo in English, but I think it is a sort of 
aconite: it is yellow and has a dark stem, and a 
delicate honey perfume, and grows in clusters 
close to the ground, and the blossoms come up 
before the leaves. Stay . . . here is one 
. . . you will (I hope) know what I mean! 
This was sent me yesterday, with some others, 
by an invalid lady whom I never saw. But she 
had been reading the Roadside Songs and un¬ 
derstood, by my drawings of flowers, how much 
I cared for them, and so sent me her very first 
spring flowers! And I felt her kindness so much 
that I could not help telling you. Your letters 
seemed sad to me, but I hope it was only because 
you had been reading over poor Rosie’s letters. 


THE VALUE OF FRIENDS 165 

Of course I have always understood that none of 
the others could ever make her loss good to you; 
but you would not want them to, would you? I 
think if we could ever forget our treasures in 
Heaven or fill up their places here with anything 
earthly, that would be a greater loss than when 
they died. (And if the world cannot make us 
forget them , it is not likely that Heaven makes 
them forget us.) But we can be thankful for 
what we have left to brighten our journey to its 
end, and the good Lord always leaves us some¬ 
thing. You have Joanie, and her children. I 
doubt if you ever quite knew yourself how dear 
she was to you, until she was ill last year. One 
finds out, at such times, just what our friends are 
to us; as I have had proof in my own life, only 
too often! 

You were very kind to write so large, for the 
sake of my eyes; but I never have any trouble 
in reading your writing; and, besides, my eyes 
are really very well now. As soon as the days 
are a little longer, and warm enough to have the 
windows open (which will be very soon now) I 
am going to try my drawing again. No wonder 
you cannot imitate 6 cloud lace,’ to say nothing 
of the flowers and jewels of that country; but 
your works represent it to me, as closely as it can 
be represented. 

Good-bye for now! Mammina sends love and 
the same as ever from your affectionate 

Sorella.” 


166 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


“ Florence, February 9, 1888. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

As I begin my letter to you today, I am 
reminded that it is your birthday! I hope that 
you are passing it happily, with Joanie to keep 
you company, and letters from all the people you 
care about, and my Florentine anemones on the 
table to remind you that Spring is walking very 
fast northward now and will soon be, I hope, in 
England. Sig. Bortolo Zanchetta is here, mak¬ 
ing us a visit of a few days, and has been telling 
us a great deal about our friends in Bassano. 

Silvia wrote me last week that she and her 
mother were coming here for a few days; but I 
have heard no more about it, and am hoping all 
the time to see them appear. 

I was not able to finish this letter yesterday, 
and now take up my pen on Thursday— Berlin - 
gaccio —but I have not seen a mask this year ex¬ 
cepting in the shop windows. However, I be¬ 
lieve they are having a corso somewhere; and 
Sig. Bortolo has gone off to see it; he is almost 
up to Edwige in his love of sight-seeing! 

It is a heavenly day and quite warm; but the 
hills are still white with snow, and shining 
against a perfectly clear sky; and the first hya¬ 
cinth has blossomed on my terrace. There 
. . . I was just writing that sentence when two 
visitors came. And now I have not another min¬ 
ute, so good-bye, and love from Mammina and 

Your affectionate Sorella.” 


FOOLISH PEOPLE AND FORLORN 167 
Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Sandgate, February 19,1888. 

Darling Sorel: 

How accurately and surely you hit your 
day, in defiance of callers and contadini and fool¬ 
ish people and forlorn. More forlorn than your 
Fratel it would be difficult to find today under 
the gray sky of England, unbroken gray since 
morning. And now it’s tea time, snowing wet 
snow in shivery thaw, and I can’t read and can’t 
think and can’t walk about and can’t rest in an 
armchair. And this after having such lovely 
letters as were on the breakfast table this morn¬ 
ing: yours and Joanie’s. 

Anyhow—I can give my Sorel the promise she 
wants, that I’ll tell her everything that troubles 
me; but when I’ve nothing to trouble me and 
yet am a mere sackful of troubles, what is my 
Sorel to do with me? I declare, today the only 
way I can amuse myself is by letting the fire 
nearly out, and then cossetting it in again! One 
trouble my Sorel certainly should not have about 
me—putting up with cross-examinations about 
me. 

I think you should simply say when enquiries 
take that direction that you could not accept my 
confidence, either about my health or work, but 
on the condition of answering no questions. 
And as for people who look at you with that ex¬ 
pression of distrust, I think you should immedi- 



168 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


ately tell them you had no more time at their 
disposal. 

I am delighted with the first of Giannina’s 
pets and can quite believe anything of a par¬ 
tridge. Perhaps when I get—if I do get—fairly 
into my sea lodgings and out of this too luxuri¬ 
ous hotel, I may take up with a sea-gull again. 
I should try to get them to come to the beach to 
be fed at a fixed hour, but fear, if I succeeded, 
that the street boys would come to throw stones 
at them, or the street loungers to shoot them. 

Perhaps the most telling and tellable to begin 
with, of the sackful of troubles, is that I can’t 
get any Chinese white to take points and edges 
sharp enough for the clouds I was trying to 
paint for you, and that all sunsets, however 
beautiful in the upper sky, are monotonous in a 
bank of smoke on the horizon. And I haven’t 
seen a rainbow since I don’t know when. But a 
place like this, where one stares right into the 
sun’s face all day, is not exactly the sphere for 
them. Brantwood was the most rainbowy place 
I ever knew. . . .” 


“Sandgate, February 26, 1888. 

Darling Sorel: 

You have had a time of it, poor dear, and 
I’m so sorry that Silvia went away again. 
Joan’s coming down again next Thursday and 
I’m letting Miss Greenaway come with her on 
condition of her drawing me a flight of fairies 


LOOKING FORWARD 


169 


like sea-gulls round Shakespeare’s cliff, and a 
whole Sandgate bay full of mermaids. 

I’m so very glad and more than surprised to 
have that story of the swallows and sparrow 
from first hand, and from Giannina! of all first 
hands, the noblest. For the story itself has al¬ 
ways been a favorite stock one in children’s 
natural histories, and I never quite believed it. 
But now it’s enough to make me begin collecting 
a children’s bird book for a companion to 
Christ’s Folk . I was greatly pleased with a trait 
of my G. D.’s parrot the other day. She has 
spoiled him so that he can always make her let 
him out of his cage when he likes; and the other 
day he ‘liked’ just as she was beginning a note to 
me. After watching her a minute or two with 
looks of disapproval, he laid hold of the top of 
the bit of note paper and tore it—on which G. D. 
says ‘Polly’ to him in hen most solemn tone of 
rebuke. On which Polly replies instantly, 
‘What have you been doing V . . .” 

“Sandgate, March 4, 1888. 

Dearest Sorel: 

Your letter about Angelina’s baptism in 
San Giovanina is the most precious you’ve sent 
me yet. 

I am not merely better, but, as far as I can 
judge, so well as to be able to look forward with 
hope to starting for Chamouni on April 20th, 
Joanie’s wedding day, with her husband and 


170 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


daughter Lily. I must not look forward farther, 
yet, nor can I tell you or Mammina more to¬ 
night. Dearest love to her. Ever so much to 
Edwige, and please ask Giannina to send me a 
little bit of blessing, too, and I’m ever your lov- 
ingest 

Fratel.” 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 

“ Florence, May 10, 1888. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

I am writing to you on Ascension Day, 
when, for some reason not known, I believe, even 
to themselves, the Florentines go out early in 
the morning to the Cascine to catch crickets 
(which unfortunate crickets are afterwards kept 
in little cages as long as they live . • . not 
long, usually!). And the room in which I am 
writing is just a garden of roses, for hardly any 
one comes to see me without a handful of them; 
and there are hundreds on the terrace! I hope 
—a little—that I shall have a quiet morning, and 
no visitors; as everybody is occupied between 
church and crickets; and that my letter will not 
be all broken up, as my letters have been for 
some weeks past. I have had the kindest of kind 
letters from dear Constance Oldham, telling me 
all about your visit to her, which she knew I 
should like to hear. It always gives me pleasure 
to hear of your being with her. But I do not 




171 


GIANNINA’S TRAVELS 

know where you are now, nor whether you ever 
received my last letter (which, however, had 
nothing particular in it) that I sent to Sandgate. 
I hope that this one may find you, somewhere. 

Giannina, for the present, continues to grow 
better slowly and has begun to go out on her lit¬ 
tle terrace and look at her pinks and roses—a 
thing which she had not been able to do for many 
months. Today is the anniversary of what she 
considers one of the great events of her life— 
her first sight of the Italian flag in Tuscany. 
She has just been telling me about it. It was in 
’50—20 years ago!—the 10th of May; and she 
was coming from Bologna to Florence. Bologna 
was under papal rule then, supported by Aus¬ 
trian soldiers; but Florence had declared itself 
Italian for about a fortnight, though its fate was 
very doubtful. Before she left Bologna, some 
of the students had come to take leave of her, 
and had entreated her, secretly, to ask the Flor¬ 
entines to come and help them. She came away 
in the night by the diligence, for there was no 
railroad then; and her friends in their enthusi¬ 
asm piled the carriage quite full of flowers. Just 
as the day was breaking, they (that is, herself, 
Mother and Brother Antonio) reached the 
frontier. I must tell the rest in her own 
words. 

‘I can see it all now as if it were yesterday— 
that daybreak of the first of May! There before 
me sat an Austrian sentinel on a black horse: he 


172 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


sat very still, covered with a white mantle that 
fell over the horse; and in the dim light he looked 
like a phantom. And beyond him, just across 
the hedge, I saw the Italian banner on a long 
pole rising against the sky. But I can never tell 
you what I felt when I saw, for the first time, 
the Italian colours! I went all out of myself, 
and as I passed near it, I stood up in the car¬ 
riage and caught up as many flowers as I could 
hold in both arms and threw them at the foot of 
the flag-staff. There was a sentinel also on the 
Tuscan side, guarding the flag; and when I 
looked back I saw him jump over the hedge and 
gather up the flowers and go to tying them on 
to the staff. He was certainly a gentleman— 
not a rough person, for he had gentle feelings, 
and could understand what I had in my heart 
when I threw the flowers.’ I have not wished to 
change her words, but she meant that it was the 
first time she had seen the Italian flag since she 
was a little girl, when it was hung out on the 
campanile of Teramo during the few days of the 
constitution. Almost every day now she tells me 
some story, but I love especially to hear about 
her travels. 

We shall be going in about three weeks, I 
think. Mammina wrote today to Venice to en¬ 
gage rooms. Good-bye, and love from us both. 

Your affectionate 

Sorella” 


CARLOFORTI 


173 


Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Beauvais, July 10, 1888. 

Dearest Sorel: 

I had still better evidence yesterday after¬ 
noon of my being on the way to better recovery 
than last year, as I was able to work satisfac¬ 
torily for a couple of hours in the afternoon; 
part of the time standing on a ladder, and this 
morning I have been for three-quarters of an 
hour drawing, and for an hour climbing about 
the Cathedral in my old way. And there seems 
to me every probability that with due prudence, 
I may gradually make my way towards the Alps 
as I did in 1882, and that Joanie may have a 
happy time with me there either in the autumn 
or early next spring. 

Your account of Carloforti relieved me from 
a grievous anxiety, for I had not been able to 
reply to his last letter. I have sent today, reg¬ 
istered, a little present of fifty guineas, both to 
him and Amelia, with a note saying I hope they 
will be able to ascertain upon that what with due 
economy they will require in the future. 

And the next thing I have on my mind is the 
continuation of Christ’s Folk . I have the 
greater part of your letter with me, and as soon 
as I feel it safe to do a little serious work, will 
arrange the next number. The few words that 
will be needed to present the next number of 
Christ’s Folk can be written in thankfulness. 


174 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


The third matter on my mind is the final desti¬ 
nation of the drawing of Ida. I am thinking of 
placing it at Girton College. Would you like it 
to be there ? 

Ever your gratefullest and loving 

Fratel.” 

“Beauvais, 

July 16,1888. 

Sweetest Sorel: 

I must tell you before the day ends that 
I have your second happy letter and am thank¬ 
ful you are going to spare your eyes. But you 
must not think of oil painting. I have told you 
so before. You would attract every common and 
ignorant person about you and lose all your own 
essential gifts. No more of that tonight. I 
write to say how thankful I am for every word 
of the letters I copy, and how blessed they will 
be to others. 

This place is especially good for me in its old 
French honesty. I was at the fruit market to¬ 
day and the way they gave me their word for 
things was as if Christ had been in their gardens 
with them, and blessed basket and stock; and 
they promised to have things ready for me to¬ 
morrow with such evident pleasure and dignity 
in being trusted that it was as if I had been 
among your basket women. . . .” 

Ever your lovingest 

Fratel.” 


RENEWED ENERGY 


175 


“ Hotel Maurice, Paris, 
August 25, 1888. 

Darlingest Sorel: 

. . . On Monday morning (day after 
tomorrow) I start, D. V., for Verona, which is a 
place, I suppose, within reach of Bassano? and 
there I hope to meet my Sorel at Castel Franco, 
and go with her where she pleases. Only I must 
be back here in Paris in November, and I’ve 
some essential work to do in Venice, so I can’t be 
long anywhere else, and I can’t get to Verona 
quite as fast as steam could carry me for I have 
to see my old Chamouni on the way, and I’m 
going by the Allee Blanche down the Val 
d’Aosta, which will take a little time. 

It seems as if my life had been given back to 
me as it was in 1878, before any of the delirious 
illness. I am drawing and writing with my old 
decision and pleasure, doing what delights Joan 
in Praeterita, and giving the French copyists in 
the Louvre something to think about, extremely 
new to them. And I am on my feet nearly all day 
long—in the Louvre or in the gardens or the 
streets—enjoying everything, but above all the 
shop girls of the lace and silk and oriental em¬ 
broidery shops; and getting smiles of approval 
of my good taste! I’ve got very far on with a 
little Turk who, with her mother, sells me silks 
inwoven with gold, and scarlet Fezzes and such 
like; she gives me my tea when I’m tired in the 
afternoon and plays me pretty Turkish music, 



176 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


singing also very nicely when her mother bids 
her. That’s enough to confess tonight, but I 
never could have believed I should take to Paris 
life this way. It seemed exactly the thing I 
wanted! 

Ever your lovingest 

Fratel.” 

“ Paris, August 26,1888. 

Darling Sorel: 

What will you think of your Pratel, I 
wonder, now! He was up at five this morning 
and out for an hour’s walk before his coffee, for 
the first time these three years, and enjoyed it 
ever so much. And he had two artists at lunch 
and a young lady artist and her mother at tea, 
and was out listening to the band in the Tuileries 
afterwards, and walking with a crowd in the 
Palais Royal and sauntering in the Avenue de 
l’Opera, and tomorrow, D. V., he starts fair for 
Verona! 

My dear little Sorel, I shall be so glad to hear 
you’re out of that horrid Tyrol. You had no 
business to go there. Dear love to Mammina, but 
I didn’t think she would have left l’Abetone! 
What times we shall have, she and I, when she 
really finds out what a naughty Pilio she’s got! 

Ever your lovingest 

Eratel.” 

The following letter from Mr. Ruskin was written 


APPRECIATION OF FRIENDSHIP 177 

just after his visit to Bassano. A description of this 
visit was written by Francesca to Miss Lucy Wood- 
bridge in a letter dated December, 1888, and is in¬ 
cluded in Part II of this volume. 

“Venice, October 10, 1888. 

Sweetest Sorella: 

This is only a little leaf of love-letter, for 
I have nothing to say of myself—good—but that 
I love my Sorel and Mammina and their several 
friends. I find myself totally changed, and that 
living people are now everything to me. This 
may be partly your doing, Sorella, in having told 
me so many lovely tales and drawn for me so 
many sweet faces. But St. Ursula herself is 
nothing to me any more, and the faces I used to 
think so beautiful in Bellini or Cima are not now 
half so interesting as every third or fourth I 
pass in Venetian streets. How much less then 
than Marina*s or Silvia! 

Not but that, if the good Signor Balestier and 
I got together into a mine, I can fancy a crystal 
heart would still have some sentiment for me. 
He has sent Detmar 1 and me two charming let¬ 
ters for which I must pray you to thank him 
with both our hearts. 

Layard 2 also is unexpectedly kind, and 
Browning, not unexpectedly, as he always was, 
but very touchingly. 

1 Mr. Detmar Blow, a young architect travelling with Mr. Ruskin. 

2 Sir Austen Henry Layard, British author and archaeologist, and 
writer on Italian art, who spent some of his later years in Venice. 



180 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


them, in England, at this season! There, it is 
rather hard to stop just as I am beginning, but 
I must. Good-bye! Love from us both. 

Your affectionate 

Sorella” 

“Florence, May 3,1889. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

I have just received by the post the love¬ 
liest present that ever the post carried, and with¬ 
out a word of explanation! But I believe you 
sent it, for when we had managed to take off a 
paper that some one had pasted on it, we found 
your name underneath. So I sit down this 
morning to thank you for it, only wishing that 
my pen could set down half of what I really feel 
with regard to your kindness and constant 
thought for me. How could you ever have 
thought of sending to me that beautiful cup and 
saucer with the roses? Is it like the rose cup 
that you drink your coffee from in the morning ? 
This one will never be used for coffee—I am al¬ 
most afraid to let anybody see it! But Mam- 
mina says she will give me a glass to put it under. 
As for the spoon with the three lilies—she and I 
both know what they mean! They are in mem¬ 
ory of the three lilies that blossomed in my gar¬ 
den all at once on the day when, in answer to so 
many prayers, you began to recover from your 
illness two years ago. (Do you know those were 
the first and the last flowers that ever blossomed 


RISPETTI 


181 


on that lily!) But it is such beautiful old work! 
Nobody here ever saw any like it. Fratello mio, 
I need not tell you what treasures these are to 
me, nor how precious they will be kept. I can 
only thank you with all my heart for this, as well 
as for all your goodness to me. 

People keep coming, and I must end! But my 
Sunday letter will be pretty long! Grood-bye, 
and love, and no end of thanks from Mammina 
as well as from me. 

Your affectionate Sorella ” 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 


“8th May, ’89. 


Darling Sorel: 

I’m up to breakfast today for the first 
time—and I must just scrawl you a letter for my 
head and heart are so full—first of rispetti —It 
is clearly your first duty to the world and me— 
and mine to the world and you—and that of both 
of us to the piece of the world called Tuscany— 
to collect all the rispetti we can—(I mean—you 
can—but me’s you and you’s me in a pretty 
sorellino sense)—and print them beautifully in 
a shape easily tenable by a girl’s little hand— 
Italian of each on left and yours on right—for 
indeed, Sorel dear, you have an exquisite poetic 
gift of translation—it is so beautiful in being so 
entirely subordinate and reflective—you are like 
my lake with the sun on it—and all the lovelier 







182 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


for never wanting to say anything of your own 
—and it will be the best work for me, too, that 
can be. 

Well, have you my Val d’Arno in Florence? 
I send you one for your very own—and I want 
you to hand the other to anybody—with a soul in 
it—that can extract the gist of the book in a 
form translatable into Italian—it’s too hard 
reading for myself—and has more mistakes 
mixed with the best part of truth in it than any 
other of my books—the worst mistake I know 
in it is giving the Norman plate 4 as character¬ 
istic of the French work of St. Louis’ time—but 
I think what it says of Tuscany is mostly true— 
only I want to complete and correct it before I 
die. 

Now I must say how thankful I am for your 
sympathy about my gardener—he’s entirely 

> 

worthy and clever and good,—without one ray of 
sympathy—he likes it himself—too!—but now 
for ten years I’ve been telling him anything of 
lily—crocus—rose—apple—almond—cherry—or 
rhododendron—tribe or tribes—you have carte 
blanche to get at any expense—for garden or 
greenhouse—but not orchids nor calceolarias 
nor the many odd things that are about every¬ 
where. And once I turned his whole greenhouse 
full of calceolarias out,—and gave them away— 
and when I went into the greenhouse the day 
before yesterday out of a thunder storm—it was 
as full as it could hold of calceolarias again— 











THOUGHTS OF ROSE 183 

and the wild grass all over my own strawberry 
bed—and the weeds under my gooseberry bushes. 

Your own Fratel.” 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 


“ Florence, May 9, 1889. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

We have had a long visit from a cousin of 
Count Pasolini, just come to Florence with his 
wife, so a good part of the morning has gone. 
And now at last I am alone—really alone this 
time; for Edwige has gone off to Le Rose, to her 
little Sister’s wedding. 

But only to think of your looking forward to 
hyacinths and gentians, while we are in the midst 
of a perfect blaze of roses and geraniums! I 
wish you could see my terrace! But never mind 
the terrace now. I want to answer the more seri¬ 
ous part of your letter. You must not ask me 
to think of you as i answerable for Rosie’s death’ 
when I know that you would have saved her if 
you could: if any were to blame they were those 
who parted her from you; and I do not blame 
even them as I did once, for believe me, Fratello, 
that I do not say it to comfort you but because I 
feel sure it is true. She could never have lived 
long! The beautiful face that hangs before me 
hi the little silver frame between Ida and my 
crucifix was never made for this world. 



184 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


Here is Edwige come back from the wedding, 
tired, but very happy, having passed all the 
afternoon yesterday in helping Raffaellina ar¬ 
range her furniture in the new home. She left 
everything in order: the linen folded in the 
drawers (it is that old-fashioned hand-spun 
linen that you approve of, and will last until the 
‘sposi bambini/ as the neighbours call them, are 
white-haired old people), the plates in the cup¬ 
board, the pot of carnations and two geraniums 
in the window, and the Madonna del Buon Con- 
siglio hung over the bed. Nicodemo had laid in 
a supply of provisions: an immense loaf of dark 
coloured bread, enough to last four or five days 
(Edwige complained that it would grow pretty 
hard, but Raffaellina said that she liked it all the 
better so; it would last the longer!), a flask of 
wine, a quarter flask of oil, and a little pepper 
and salt. 

He also gave the bride what she called ‘a 
great deal of money’ (between four and five 
francs) to spend as she thought best. And the 
1 Sposi Bambini’ feel so rich, that they could 
hardly be happier for the present, if they had a 
fortune! I hope they may be blessed until the 
end: people say that Emilia’s prayers are with 
them. But I must leave you; so, good-bye, and 
love always from Mammina and 

Your affectionate 


Sorella” 


PRAETERITA 


185 


“Venice, June 11, 1889. 

Mio caro Fratello: 

I have not told you anything yet of the 
great delight with which I listened to Mam - 
mina’s reading of the last Praeterita: all that 
you tell about Joanie is so lovely! I am glad 
that you have written of her so that she can 
never more be forgotten but will be known and 
loved in the world hundreds of years hence; as 
we love some dear good people of the old time. 
Also what you say about Scotland is to me of 
the greatest interest; for it is the country of my 
family, and I love it, though I have never seen 
it, and now probably never shall see it. But I 
always like Scotch people, and they seldom fail 
to like me. Of course I can’t feel as you do about 
the bad influences of the Mediterranean coast, 
being fully persuaded that most of the troubles 
of Italy come from the north of the Alps, and 
that if the Italians would once give up trying to 
be ‘ al par degli altri’ everything would go on de¬ 
lightfully. But then I don’t pretend to be impar¬ 
tial when I love people; and I do love the 
Italians—better in some ways than they love 
themselves; for they are spoiling their beautiful 
country as fast as they can! 

But indeed, Fratello, after the despondent way 
in which you have spoken of yourself to me 
lately, I was not prepared for anything so beau¬ 
tiful as this! Does not every one feel in the same 
way about it ? Among other things, it seems to 



186 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


me that the picture which you give of your own 
mother is the most lovable that you have yet 
drawn of her. I do not speak of the descriptions 
of natural scenery, for when one says they are 
yours there is nothing more to say. 

But I must leave you now: Joanie says you 
are resting; and I pray that you will not try to 
answer any of my letters until you are quite 
rested and have taken up your usual life again. 
I am not at all afraid of your forgetting me; and 
when I know that you are resting, I am happy. 
Good-bye; and love as ever from Mammina and 

Your affectionate 

Sorella” 


“Venezia, Di 4 Luglio, 1889. 
Mio caro Fratello : 

Today has been a real festa day to me, 
made so by receiving your kind and most beau¬ 
tiful letter. I was more glad to have it than 
usual, as I did not hear from you last week, 
which made me fear you might not be feeling 
well; but now I see that it was only because you 
had enough to think of in poor Joanie in so much 
need of comfort! 

But how strange to hear you speak of drought 
and no more sound of running water, when we 
have storms here every day, with rain and thun¬ 
der and lightning—sometimes really terrific! 
Yesterday it did not ram, and I overheard Ed- 


EDWIGE’S SAYINGS 187 

wige saying to the gondoliere’s wife, 4 1 should 
not wonder if he were learning, little by little, to 
behave better!’ (‘He,’ meant the weather, which 
she always speaks of in that personal way.) But 
the rain came hi the night, and this morning 
there were pools of water standing in the streets. 

I am afraid that some of the gondolieri, with 
all their agreeable qualities, are given to swear¬ 
ing when they are angry; but then Edwige says 
that it is not so sinful for 4 these foreigners’ to 
swear as it is for Italians. (I am sorry to say 
that 4 foreigner’ with her stands for Venetian, 
and 4 Italian’ for Tuscan.) This seemed to me 
rather queer sort of morality, and I asked her 
what made the difference. She said, 4 Because 
people here speak such a language that nobody 
can understand much of what they say; but in 
Florence they speak a beautiful clear language 
and every one knows what they mean!’ It is 
easy to laugh at poor Edwige’s sayings, but 
sometimes there is much wisdom in them. 

Yesterday afternoon she was walking with me 
when we passed a hard-faced woman leading a 
pretty little girl of twelve or thirteen years, who 
carried a violin. Edwige became quite excited 
with pity and indignation at the sight; she said 
that the woman took the child to play at cafes 
and restaurants, and that it was a ‘brutto mesti- 
ere/ I was surprised at the amount of feeling 
she displayed, and asked her, 4 But is it not easy 
work compared with what other poor girls have 


188 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

to do ? Only think how hard your own life has 
been!’ 

She answered very quickly, ‘But my life has 
not been hard!’ And when I asked what she 
meant, she said, ‘My life has been poor but not 
hard: I have worked hard, but I did it willingly, 
for my children; and I would do it willingly over 
again. A hard life is one that has wrongdoing 
in it. And I have never been a slave.’ In 
answer to my farther questions, she said, ‘ I have 
been poor and in subjection; but that is not be¬ 
ing a slave.’ . . .” 


“Primiero, Di 25 Luglio, 1889. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

I am thankful at last, after a week of con¬ 
fusion, to find myself again beginning a Sunday 
letter, and hope that I may have a quiet hour to 
finish it. We were sorry to leave Venice, when 
the time came, after the lovely seven weeks we 
spent there: one never really can grow tired of 
Venice and the Laguna, even after all that has 
been done to spoil them. They were just build¬ 
ing the bridge of boats to the Redentore when 
we came away; and were expecting a very grand 
festival, as the Queen had promised to be pres¬ 
ent. But I was much shocked at the placards 
that were pasted upon the walls: *Baccanale del 
Redentore / Only think of putting those two 
words together! Though really it is not so bad 


PRIMOLANO 


189 

as it sounds, for it is a very innocent sort of bac- 
canale; nothing but music and coloured paper 
lanterns and going down to the Lido to see the 
sunrise. 

But I must come to our journey. We passed 
the night at Bassano. In the morning it rained; 
but I just took a run around the garden, looked 
at the flowers (for all the plants there are old 
friends), saw what the seeds that I gathered last 
year were doing—and then we set out past the 
dear old city, and turned up the lovely valley of 
the Brenta. That first part of the journey was 
all pleasant until we came to Primolano, where 
we waited a while and walked about the town, 
and saw the place where the terrible battle was 
fought, of which the very thought makes one 
shiver! But some young people, whom we asked 
to show us the precise spot, knew nothing about 
it—only think of its being forgotten so soon! 
But a gray-haired man, sitting in the door of the 
very small cafe, remembered it all and came out 
and showed us the winding, precipitous road, 
which the Italians and Austrians disputed, inch 
by inch, for so many hours! There is no monu¬ 
ment or inscription of any kind to mark the 
place. Primolano is a very pretty little village 
with canopies of grape-vine over the doors, and 
flourishing geraniums in the windows; and I saw 
some broken stones with the remains of ancient 
carving built into a wall: a cross, and the Lion of 
St. Mark, and some ornamental work deserving 


190 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


a better fate. But after we had entered the car¬ 
riage again, an officer came up to the window and 
asked us some questions about where we were 
going, and made such extraordinary assertions 
about the road before us that we thought he was 
laughing at us, and cut the conversation as short 
as politeness would admit. 

‘It is a terrible road!’ he said. ‘I hope you 
will pass it safely; but—I tell you! There are 
places on that Primiero road where it is needful 
to make the sign of the Holy Cross! And you 
will have to walk a good deal of the way. Have 
you any umbrellas? Well, you had better keep 
them up when you walk; for the water keeps 
drop, dropping there, most of the time, and often 
a stone or two drops down with it.’ 

We did not believe any of this, and the Vet- 
turino about that time drew down the curtains 
(making an excuse of the sun which was just 
coming out) and we went on quite contentedly. 
But the road grew steeper and steeper and after 
some time the sun clouded in again and we put 
up the curtains, just as we were entering the 
strangest ravine that ever I saw! A small noisy 
river seemed as if it had cut a great mountain in 
two, and made for itself a narrow valley, with 
nearly perpendicular walls of rocks, which rocks 
were laid in such regular order that it was diffi¬ 
cult sometimes not to mistake them for mason’s 
work, though at the top they were broken into 
jagged cliffs, rising high up into the sky and 



A DANGEROUS ROAD 


191 


often disappearing in the clouds. Prom these 
cliffs many great masses of rock had fallen into 
the bed of the stream below, causing it to turn 
and foam and struggle as if it were fighting for 
its life with the stones,—the water always having 
the best of it at last, as water always does. And 
half up the terrible wall, as high above the 
stream as the Duomo—if not higher—was a very 
narrow road, sometimes with a low stone wall on 
the side of the precipice, sometimes with a slight 
—and frequently broken—wooden fence, often 
with nothing at all. In many places, if I had 
stretched out my arm, I could have dropped— 
not thrown—a stone, into the far-away stream 
below. 

And along this narrow road we were obliged 
to pass in a large and heavy landau, which Piero 
della Stella had brought for our greater con¬ 
venience, much too wide for the path, which in¬ 
deed was not much more than a mule-path! 
Above us, in many places, the precipice pro¬ 
jected and hung over our heads: it seemed 
formed, in great part, of broken and decompos¬ 
ing stones, of which many, loosened by the rain, 
had fallen into the road, and made us see the 
wisdom in the advice of the officer at Primolano! 
The road itself had been washed away in one 
place and was newly mended with a load of loose 
earth and some brushwood; in another place, 
some men were mending it. They stopped as we 
came by and looked at us solemnly and anxiously 



192 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

without speaking—their manner was not reas¬ 
suring. 

As soon as we reached a place where we were 
not afraid to speak, we asked the Vetturino to 
let us descend, and then walked until we had 
passed the more dangerous part. It was perhaps 
well for us that we could not see any long stretch 
of the road at once, owing to the winding of the 
valley. But once on our feet, the horror of it all 
was over—at least for me—and I could enjoy the 
extreme, though savage beauty of the place. 

For it was beautiful beyond all description, 
and (since no harm came to us) I am most 
thankful for having seen it. I wish I could de¬ 
scribe to you the vivid green of such trees as 
could find a place to cling to, and of the patches 
of fine mountain grass wherever any earth had 
settled in the hollows of the rock—and the lovely 
mountain flowers. . . . Oh, Fratello, such 
pinks and such bluebells! I do not believe I 
shall ever forget one cluster of white fringed 
pinks that had grown between two fallen stones 
at the very edge of the abyss: their delicate 
beauty made me ashamed of my fears, for if they 
were taken such care of in that terrible place, 
surely (I thought) we should be! 

But the most wonderful sights of all were the 
cascades, the streams that came to the edge of 
the rocks above, and then fell into the stream 
below. Some would come bright and smooth 
over the projecting rocks, far up against the sky, 



A BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE 


193 


and not touch anything again until they reached 
the bottom of the ravine, broken into a shower 
of fine rain, that the wind would wave about on 
its way as though it were a cloud. Others dashed 
down among broken rocks, that turned them all 
to foam as white as snow; and one had worn the 
rocks quite smooth, and slid down like a wavy 
silver ribbon, without a break. And one, per¬ 
haps the loveliest of all, spread itself over the 
side of the precipice, like the folds of a thin 
gauze veil. Many flowed from caverns in the 
mountainside, and had but a short life before 
they were lost in the Scliener, as they call the 
terrible mad river. 

Then we passed a place where the valley made 
a sudden turn. Before we had finished looking 
for new dangers, we found that we had left the 
ravine behind us, and were in a pleasant and 
peaceful country, with woods and pastures and 
villages. Then the sun came out and threw a 
rainbow across the mountain and the clouds, 
the trees showing through it and taking its 
colours. 

And after that, nothing more especial hap¬ 
pened to us until, before long, we came in sight 
of this pretty town with its white houses and 
bright gardens and old Gothic church, of all 
which I will write you next week. 

It is late now, and I only hope I have not 
wearied you with my account. I am waiting 
anxiously now for Joanie’s next letter, which, I 


194 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 

hope, may bring good news of you. Love from 
Mammina, and the same always from 

Your affectionate 

Sorella” 

“Primiero, Di 31 Luglio, 1889. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

The last week has been passed principally 
in learning to know this very singular and beau¬ 
tiful country, and I feel as if I were only just 
beginning. I told you last week of our journey; 
and today will just begin where I left off and 
write you some of my first impressions. 

The day after our arrival was Sunday; and, 
having rested in the morning, in the afternoon I 
went to church with Edwige. On our way 
through the main street of the little city, I saw 
that it looked very clean and bright and cheer¬ 
ful, and that balconies and windows were filled 
with beautiful flowering plants, principally 
geraniums, carnations, and fuchsias, all of 
rather unusual size and luxuriance. Some of the 
houses were handsome and quite old, with pretty 
arched windows: nearly all large and comfort¬ 
able, and massively built; but roofed with 
wooden shingles, like houses that I used to see in 
the country in America, when I was a child. 
They nearly all seemed to open into large gar¬ 
dens behind. The wooded hills rose steep about 
the city, appearing over the roofs, and at the 
ends of the streets, with bare and fantastic rocks 


THE CHURCH 


195 


rising behind them. The city seems to lie in a 
nest, and is none too easy of access from the out¬ 
side world; which no doubt has been in many 

/ 

ways an advantage to it. Over several doors in 
the town (as I have seen since in the country) 
was this beautiful inscription: ‘Christus nobis¬ 
cum stat/ All this, and much more, we observed 
during the few minutes ’ walk to the church, 
which stands on a little eminence above the city, 
in a green field. 

It is a Gothic church; at least I believe they 
call everything Gothic that has pointed arches, 
but it is not in the least like anything Gothic that 
I ever saw before; it is all narrow and slender 
and upright, with long slits of windows and little 
round panes of glass and a very steep roof, and 
pointed arches—I daresay you will know what I 
mean; and it is very beautiful in its way. We 
went in and found it so full of people that we 
could find no seats; though we did at last find a 
place to kneel, beside an old contadina, who 
looked good and pleasant, though a little rough. 

The vesper service was going on, and the peo¬ 
ple sang very sweetly, though without any in¬ 
strument ; it is so pleasant to go into a church in 
any part of the world and hear prayers and 
hymns that one knows! It makes a foreigner 
feel so at home! Before long they struck into 
the ‘Pange Lingua 9 that my dear Enrichetta 
taught me, and that she and I used to sing to¬ 
gether—it was so beautiful to hear it in these 



196 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


far-away mountains where I was not expecting 
any sound of home! I joined; and then two or 
three people looked at me and smiled and nodded 
encouragingly. They have these easy friendly 
ways in church here; but they are very devout: 
I wish you could have seen with how much ear¬ 
nestness even very little children joined in the 
service! Only one little girl of fourteen or so I 
saw whispering to her mother, which surprised 
me; but after a minute she came over to us and 
said, Tome and sit on our bench, there is room!’ 
The people were very plainly dressed, mostly in 
contadino clothes; and the onlv difference which 
they appeared to make for church was that many 
of the women and girls wore white handker¬ 
chiefs, with lace borders, on their heads, which 
were pretty and becoming. There were many 
pretty and pleasing faces in the congregation, 
and people were all kind in their ways to us, the 
only strangers present, and did not let us feel 
lonely at all. So much for first impressions. 

The next day I had occasion to go to some of 
the shops and to make more or less acquaint¬ 
ance with various people. One old woman kept 
a little fruit stand under a tent: she was very 
brown and wrinkled, and exceedingly poor in 
her dress; but her dark eyes were large and 
handsome (though much sunken) and had a 
keen, searching expression. I asked the price 
of some cherries; she did not answer at once, but 
looked solemnly and steadily in my face for a 


STREET BOYS 


197 


moment; then said, with rather a lofty smile, 
speaking slowly and distinctly: ‘I like you, be¬ 
cause you speak good Italian! I am an Italian 
from Fonzaso; we do not speak like people here.’ 
Afterwards, when she had sold me the cherries, 
she wrapped them in a sheet of white paper, say¬ 
ing, ‘I always keep nice clean paper for my fruit, 
because I am an Italian! People here would 
give you any kind of paper; but we Italians like 
to have things clean: we are different from the 
Primiero people.’ (I am sorry to say that I 
could not return her compliment with regard to 
the good Italian, for she spoke the queerest kind 
of a dialect.) 

I have acquired some new ideas since I have 
been here, with regard to the utility of street 
boys: really, I don’t know what the city would 
do without them! The shopkeepers go away 
when they feel like it, and leave their shops open 
for any one to go in. When I want to buy some¬ 
thing and can find nobody to attend to me, these 
children always take me under their protection: 
they run in different directions until some one 
of them finds the missing shopkeeper, and 
marches him triumphantly in; the other children 
following to enjoy the spectacle. Sometimes he 
cannot find what I want; then I come away, but 
some time afterwards in some other part of the 
city, I hear the boys calling and screaming at 
me, two or three together: ‘Signora, Signora! 
The man in that shop wants you! He has 


198 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


found what he was looking for!’ And then 
they march me in and wait to see what sort of 
bargain we make. The patriotic old lady of the 
fruit stand is usually absent, and some of the 
boys go and find her, when a customer comes 
along. Only think of a fruit stand left all day 
under the guardianship of street boys! But they 
tell me that nothing is ever stolen in this remark¬ 
able city of ninety-five houses! (The guide-book 
says that is the number: they look like more, but 
then most of them are quite large.) 

The language here is quite an intelligible dia¬ 
lect of Italian, so that I can make myself at home 
with the people; who all are very polite, though 
they do not carry their ideas of good manners 
quite so far as the Bassano people, who will 
reprove a cat for turning her back on a 
visitor. 

Last evening I gave a (not very good) pear to 
a barefoot baby who cried for it. His mother, 
who carried him in her arms and who was a 
Bassano woman, told me very seriously that she 
hoped I would excuse the child’s not thanking 
me, as he had not yet learned to talk. Which 
was certainly a good reason! 

Edwige is delighted with everything, espe¬ 
cially with the beautiful country around; and 
she expressed her feelings about it a while ago 
by saying to me, ‘How I wish I could bring an 
eye up here for some of the people who can’t see 
it! ’ But I must end. 


IN SYMPATHY WITH BOYS 199 

Joanie sends us always good and comforting 
accounts of you, making me hope that the sum¬ 
mer is passing well and peacefully with you; so 
that I am able to enjoy this rest without any 
great present anxiety; and it is indeed a very 
blessed rest to me, and I needed it more than I 
knew! 

Next time I will tell you something of our own 
life. Meanwhile, good-bye for now, with love 
always from Mammina and 

Your affectionate Sorella ” 

Mr. Ruskin to Francesca: 

“Brantwood, Coniston, Lancashire, 
6th August, 1889. 

Darling Sorel: 

Your beautiful letters—though one fright¬ 
ened me about that terrible road—make me very 
thankful that you have found such a place as 
Primiero—full of your own sort of dear people 
and pure delights—and that it with its ninety- 
five houses has found you. The 31st of July one 
with its account of the street boys in charge of 
them and you, is a great delight to me also; how 
difficult it is to avoid underlining words continu¬ 
ally—as if all things that delighted my Sorella 
were not delights to me also. 

But it is a new pleasure to me to find 
myself in complete sympathy with boys—though 
Joanie ? s three are sweet enough with those two 


200 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


of Silvia’s—for any quantity of sympathy. But 
for street boys—well, when I look into myself— 
I have not been wanting in sympathy with them 
after all—only this is a new light for it. 

I hope Joanie will be able to send you a word 
or two about herself, and to say that she is pretty 
well pleased with me just now—and that my 
Sorel may go on making herself at home with 
those kind and happy people. 

(It really would be my best employment if 
Joanie would dictate letters to me—and make me 
write them large and make me copy my own till 
they were legible.) 

Yes, that must have been quite a lovely vesper 
service—and if that pointed Gothic is old—the 
church must be deeply interesting. But I have 
begun—too late—to care for living people in¬ 
stead of stones. Dearest love to Mammina. All 
affectionate messages to Edwige. 

Ever your devoted 

Fratel.” 


Francesca to Mr. Ruskin: 


“ Florence, October 14, 1890. 
Mio caro Fratello: 

When I sent you my last letter I did not 
think that I should have let so long a time go by 
without taking up the pen again; but every hour 
has seemed to be more than full. 

I have not much to tell you. My principal 
pleasure is in Joanie’s most kind letters, lately 




PAOLO 


201 

filled with news which makes me always more 
and more thankful. She writes me how well you 
are and what pleasant walks you and she have 
together; and I only hope she enjoys them as 
much as I did that walk you took with me when 
we went down to Bassano to see the dear old 
lady. I never walked down that pretty road 
afterwards without thinking of it! 

Another event in our very quiet life at present 
has been the christening of Edwige ? s new grand¬ 
child (No. 39) whom she brought to see us on its 
way to the church, in its little white bandages 
and pink ribbons—a splendid great baby, with 
curly dark hair and deep red and brown colour¬ 
ing; and a dimple in the middle of one cheek, 
considered very ornamental. Edwige waited, 
smiling proudly, but with tears of pleasure in 
her eyes, while we took it in our arms and ad¬ 
mired it; then as she wrapped it up in her shawl, 
she said quite simply and as if it were the most 
natural way to speak of going to S. Giovanni 
with the baby: ‘Ora vado portare quest’ anima 
a Gesu / She is a godmother as well as grand¬ 
mother, and has given him the name of Paolo, 
‘ Because then he will have a really great Saint 
in Heaven! ’ she says. 

I have written in a great hurry, wanting to 
say more than I had time for. Good-bye, and 
much love from us both. 

Ever your affectionate 

Sorella 


202 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESGA 


The two preceding letters are the last of Mr. Rus- 
kin’s and Francesca’s which we are able to publish. 
There were many letters from Mrs. Severn to Mrs. 
Alexander and Francesca, giving them news of Mr. 
Ruskin during his last illness. We include one of Mrs. 
Severn’s pleasant letters: 


“Brantwood, Coniston, Ambleside, 
22nd March, 1892. 

Beloved Mammina: 

How can I thank you for all your great 

kindness. I did not give the Gr-s a letter of 

introduction, for I thought that might involve 
their going to you when perhaps you might not 
wish it, and you have done quite the kindest 
thing in leaving your card upon them and giving 
them an opportunity of returning it. The note 
to Mr. Newman please just destroy, it was only 

venturing to ask also if the Gr-s might make 

his acquaintance. The odd thing is I have not 

heard at all from Mrs. Gr- since Mrs. Holt 

wrote giving me their address and saying how 
very grateful they would be if they might have 
an introduction to you. 

We are having lovely summer weather and 
your Figlio is wonderful. The photo of him with 
me was done by an amateur and has never been 
mounted. The other is his boat with me, and old 
Arthur in one beyond, and his sailing boat at her 
mooring from our Harbour makes a nice little 





PHOTOGRAPHS 


203 


group. The Di Pa's 1 own boat, he is rowing me 
in, with waves and stars round as a pattern I 
chose for it—which chanced to be on Sir Francis 
Drake's shield. The Di Pa christened his own 
boat The Jumping Jenny, from Sir Walter 
Scott's 'Redgauntlet,' and while we put a wreath 
of daffodils on her bow as she was launched, he 
said, 

'Waves give place to thee, 

Heaven send grace to thee, 

Fortune to ferry kind hearts and merry.' 

The other photo of your Figlio is from the 
Northcote portrait of him at 3J4. Post, alas! 
going. 

Your grateful, ever loving 

Figlia.” 

Our love always F's and mine to the Sorella. 

Mr. Ruskin’s cousin, Mrs. Arthur Severn, was to him 
like a very dear younger sister. Mr. M. H. Spielman, 
in his biography of John Ruskin, writes of her in a 
chapter entitled, “ The Angel in the House." This she 
truly was. Her love for Mr. Ruskin and her devotion 
to him were unfailing. She was a most thoughtful 
friend to Mrs. Alexander and Francesca, and always 
wrote to them whenever Mr. Ruskin was too ill to 
write. 

Of the last years of Mr. Ruskin’s life, his dear and 
intimate friend, Charles Eliot Norton, has written, 
“ The last years of his life were spent in retirement 
and, save for recurrent attacks of brain trouble, his 

i ‘ ‘ Di Pa ’ ’ was the name given to Mr. Ruskin by Mrs. Severn’s 
children, when they were very young. 


204 RUSKIN’S LETTERS TO FRANCESCA 


days were peaceful and not unhappy. He still enjoyed 
the beauties of Nature and of Art, still loved to listen 
to simple music. He was cared for with entire tender¬ 
ness and devotion. 

“ His sun sank slowly, and amid clouds, but they did 
not wholly darken its light.” 

All through these last years, whenever he was able 
to write, Mr. Ruskin wrote to Francesca, and Fran¬ 
cesca often sent him flowers and wrote to him con¬ 
stantly. 

Time, separation, trouble—nothing could mar nor 
alter their affection for each other, and their friend¬ 
ship remained unchanged to the end. 






Francis Alexander 

From a self portrait 



PART II 

MEMOIRS OP THE ALEXANDERS 



* 




INTRODUCTION TO PART II 

T 

Francesca loved Florence intensely, and de¬ 
lighted in its old churches, galleries, and works 
of art, of which there are many enthusiastic de¬ 
scriptions in her early letters from Italy. These 
have been omitted only because Florence is prob¬ 
ably very well known to many of our readers. 

Francesca was a beautiful child; as she grew 
older she spoke of herself as “ plain. ” She had 
handsome dark eyes and a bright color; her 
other features were plain, but she had a very 
sweet and kind expression, which attracted every 
one to her. 

Many of her early letters are written in a very 
fine, running hand on thin paper. To decipher 
them, in some cases, requires a magnifying glass, 
or very keen sight, which my sister fortunately 
has, and all the letters in the following pages 
have been read and compiled by my sister. 

After Francesca had lived a few years in 
Florence, where she studied the old manuscripts, 
her handwriting entirely changed, and she wrote 
a very clear, round hand, as beautiful and as 
legible as any of the old manuscripts. 


207 














CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Early Associations . . . .211 

II The First Years in Florence . . 220 

III Abetone.260 

IV The Visit to America and the Return 

to Italy.303 

V Some Italian Friends .... 339 

VI The Giostra.354 

VII 1880 to 1884 365 

VIII Our Aunt and Her Books . . . 389 

IX Our Last Visit to Our Aunt and 

Francesca.423 


/ 


209 












































CHAPTER I 


EARLY ASSOCIATION'S 

Francis Alexander was born in Killingly, Connec¬ 
ticut, February 3rd, 1800. He tells his own story in 
Dunlap’s History of the Arts of Design in the United 
States. Of his early life he writes: 

“My course in early life was none of the 
smoothest; it being midst rocks and stumps, 
briers and thistles, and finally, through all the 
perplexities and privations incident to the life 
of a poor farmer’s son. I might tell of going 
barefoot to church hundreds of times in warm 
weather, three miles distant, and of a thousand 
similar incidents. The relation of such facts 
might not interest your readers so much, per¬ 
haps, as it might injure the feelings of my very 
aged and very respectable parents. (Their ages 
are 76 and 77, and they are living in much com¬ 
fort and quiet, in a beautiful white cottage which 
I erected, two years ago, expressly for their 
benefit.) ” 

Of the courageous effort he made to study art he 
writes most interestingly, although modestly saying 
little about his later great success as a portrait painter. 
He writes: 

“I painted two years or more in Providence. 

211 


212 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


I afterwards came to Boston bringing a painting 
of two sisters with me, which I carried to Mr. 
Stuart for his opinion; he said that they were 
very clever, that they reminded him of Gains¬ 
borough’s pictures, that I lacked many things 
that might be acquired by practice and study, 
but that I had that which could not be acquired. 
He invited me to come to Boston and set up as a 
portrait painter, so accordingly, after going 
home and making the necessary preparations, I 
returned and commenced painting in that city, 
where I remained in the full tide of successful 
experiment until I set sail for Italy on the 23rd 
of October, 1831.” 

Mr. Alexander spent some weeks in Florence, then 
went to Rome, where he painted for three months. 
Sir Walter Scott visited him in his studio in Rome and 
remained nearly an hour. Mr. Alexander writes: 

“I had painted an original Magdalen. Sir 
Walter moved his chair up within six feet of it; 
there he sat looking at it for some minutes with¬ 
out speaking. I was all impatience to know 
what he would say. He turned away with the 
laconic remark, i She’s been forgiven.’ ” 

Sir Walter Scott sat to Mr. Alexander for a pencil 
sketch, which is reproduced here. After spending 
nearly a year and a half in Europe, Francis Alexander 
returned to America and took his old studio again in 
Columbian Hall. Efere he painted portraits of many 
of the lovely women and prominent men of his day. 




^Cv aUAj ,r J c<y / 6C' C«^/1 

/hry^j f?(rTr>*~' lX^ 'j^TJyU? 

'JtsA n-vC/i 'T*JL- Jiod^ ^ kswr- 
“* t*i*t.'C£ *L ,6 /fyuU? 

‘*f' / * tMr b*rfe f f<nr xAu. 


/ 



Sir Walter Scott 

From a 'pencil sketch hy Francis Alexander 






EARLY ASSOCIATIONS 213 

Among the latter were President Andrew Jackson, 
Longfellow, Dickens, Webster, and Judge Jeremiah 
Smith, one of his finest portraits, which was painted 
for Dartmouth College. He also painted a copy of it, 
now owned by Judge Smith’s grandchildren in Cam¬ 
bridge. Among his portraits of beautiful women is one 
of Mrs. McKean of Philadelphia., who was Miss Phoebe 
W arren of Troy, New York, a great belle; one of Mrs. 
Dow, who was Miss McBurney, a lovely picture of a 
very beautiful woman; one of Miss Emily Marshall 
(Mrs. Wm. F. Otis), Mrs. Fletcher Webster, and pic¬ 
tures of the three beautiful daughters of Mr. Robert 
G. Shaw. I recollect a very handsome and graceful 
picture of Mrs. Pratt and the exquisite soft blue of 
her gown. The portrait was a pastel, in which he ex¬ 
celled. 

In our library we have many family portraits by 
Uncle Alexander. The one which always first attracts 
attention is that of our mother painted when she was 
Mary Low. 

On May 9, 1836, Francis Alexander married Lucia 
Gray Swett, daughter of Colonel Samuel Swett and of 
Lucia (Gray) Swett. My aunt, Mrs. Alexander, and 
my father were both born in Cambridge in the old 
house, which had been the summer home of their 
grandfather William Gray. Here their early childhood 
was spent until their father moved into Boston. Their 
elder brother William Gray Swett was born in Salem, 
where their parents had lived for a few years before 
moving to Cambridge. Samuel Swett had married the 
only daughter of William Gray of Salem. It seemed 
a very great request for a young lawyer with no for¬ 
tune to ask one of the wealthiest merchants in the 
United States for the hand of his young, beautiful, and 
only daughter. The answer, however, was most kindly. 
In one of our aunt’s books sent out from Italy, we 
found this old yellow letter, which she had kept so 
many years: 


214 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

“ Salem, 

June 23d, 1807. 

Mr. Swett: 

I have reed, your letter of this day asking 
our consent to your uniting in marriage with our 
daughter,— 

Having the fullest confidence in your honour, 
and that you will make a hind, faithfull and 
affectionate husband, we give our consent to that 
connection which we hope will promote your 
mutual happiness, which will be greatly pro¬ 
moted, by kindness, forbearance, and candor. 
This event I did hope would have been put off 
to a more distant period, but since I think you 
both arrived to years of discretion, we are con¬ 
tent to leave you to decide—in the mean time, 
ask with freedom of me, any thing you wish, 
(in reason), I shall cheerfully comply with your 
request, and am 

y. aff. 

Wm. Gray. 

Mrs. Gray joins me in the sentiments ex¬ 
pressed in this letter.” 

Colonel Swett went to the War of 1812 as an en¬ 
gineer officer on the staff of General Izard. After his 
return, he organized and was the first Commander of 
the New England Guards. Colonel Swett was the 
author of the first history of the Battle of Bunker Hill, 
and also of many historical papers and genealogical 
articles. 

His father, Dr. John Barnard Swett, was the nephew 
and adopted son of Parson John Barnard of Marble- 



EARLY ASSOCIATIONS 


215 


head, and married Charlotte Bourne, daughter of Wil¬ 
liam Bourne, of Marblehead. During the great yellow 
fever scourge in Newburyport in 1796, he contracted 
the fever of which he died. 

Thacher, in his Memoirs of Eminent Physicians , 
writes, 

“Dr. Swett was constantly at his post in the 
most infected district of the town, until he fell a 
martyr to his high sense of Professional Obliga¬ 
tion. His death threw a gloom over the town not 
to be described in words. ” 

Colonel Swett’s mother was married three times. 
Her second husband was Colonel Hamilton, who owned 
the beautiful old Hamilton house in South Berwick, 
Maine. After his death, she married the Governor of 
New Hampshire, John Taylor Gilman, who was Gov¬ 
ernor for fourteen years. 

Some of the happiest days of my aunt’s and my 
father’s childhood were spent in visiting their grand¬ 
mother in the old Gilman house in Exeter, New Hamp¬ 
shire. There our aunt made a friend for whom she 
always kept the greatest affection, Governor Gilman’s 
niece, Mary Olivia Gilman, who married Commodore 
Long. 

Mrs. Long’s house was filled with rare and beautiful 
things. She was a charming hostess, and her tea 
parties were a great feature of Exeter life. Exeter was 
an old town of many traditions; interesting people 
lived in some of the old Colonial houses that lined its 
streets. My father, Dr. Samuel Bourne Swett, after 
spending several years in the hospitals in France, was 
induced by his love for Exeter to choose the harder life 
of a country doctor; as a surgeon he was called all over 
the county. Many a snowy winter’s night he would 
start off in his sleigh to drive ten or fifteen miles, tak- 


216 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

ing his snow shovel with him to dig his way out 
through the drifts. He was considered a confirmed 
bachelor until he fell in love with and married a beau¬ 
tiful young girl, Mary Low; she had spent the greater 
part of her childhood and girlhood with her aunt, w T ho 
was Miss Elizabeth Hale and who had married, as his 
second wife, Judge Jeremiah Smith of Exeter. He had 
been Governor and later became Chief Justice of New 
Hampshire. 

Mrs. Alexander was very fond of this young sister- 
in-law, and many were the visits between Boston and 
Exeter. 

Our uncle and aunt after their marriage in 1836 lived 
on West Cedar Street in Boston, and had a summer 
home in Lynn. Esther Frances Alexander (Francesca) 
was born February 27, 1837, in the house on West 
Cedar Street. By her relatives and playmates she was 
called Fanny, although her parents often called her 
Fan. Francesca was the name by w T hich later she 
became generally known and under which her books 
were published. Francesca had a happy childhood; in 
her centered all the love and devotion of her father 
and mother and also of her grandparents, as for several 
years she was the only grandchild. She had a happy, 
loving nature, was very gifted, and early developed 
her great talent for drawing, and delighted more in 
her drawing-book and pencil than in her most beautiful 
toys. We have several of her drawing-books filled with 
pictures of her relatives and friends. It was always 
easy for Francesca to write in verse; and many little 
German pieces which had been translated for her she 
turned into English verse. We have a number of these 
in her youthful handwriting. 

The house on West Cedar Street was so near the 
Common that Boston Common was Francesca’s happy 
playground. In summer she delighted in her garden 
in Lynn and in playing on the beach with her little 
friends. Her favorite playmates were always Willy 



Francesca when a Child 

From a crayon drawing by Francis Alexander 







. 























EARLY ASSOCIATIONS 


217 


and Lucy Woodbridge, Sarah Barnard, and little Rose 
Hooper. She was sent to dancing school, but as she 
did not enjoy it, she went only a few times. No one 
insisted upon her going, although her grandfather was 
much interested in his grandchildren’s learning to 
dance. As a young man, he had enjoyed dancing at 
the many balls and assemblies in Salem, and when he 
was a very old gentleman, his little grandchildren loved 
to have him show them the different steps: “ The rig- 
adoon,” and several others. 

In Francesca’s drawing she had no instruction, as 
both her father and mother believed in letting her 
develop her talent in her own way and keeping, as far 
as possible, her own personality. She had a fine con¬ 
tralto voice and was so absolutely lacking in self- 
consciousness that when requested would stand up and 
sing, with no accompaniment whatever, to her mother’s 
friends or her own little playmates. We have a diary 
in her childish handwriting, in which she records her 
expenditures; and her love of music is shown by the 
numbers of pennies which went to the street musicians. 
It begins: 

“Wednesday, January 5th: I gave four cents 
to a family with an organ, a clarinett, two tam¬ 
bourines and a violin. 

“Wednesday, January 19th: I gave two dol¬ 
lars to the missionary society, also four cents to 
an organ—I forget whether it was a man or a 
boy. 

“Monday, February 7th: I gave five cents to a 
girl with a tambourine who sang treble, and a 
man with a violin who sang bass. They walked 
right on and never gave me a single tune. Ill 
never give them a cent more. 

“Wednesday, February 23rd: I gave three 


218 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


cents to a boy in a grey coat, who had a magnifi¬ 
cent organ. Willie came just as he was almost 
through, so I gave him another three-cent piece 
and he repeated almost all the tunes. 

“Saturday, March 26th: I gave four cents to a 
boy in a green baize jacket. His organ was splen¬ 
did, but he gave me only three tunes, which was 
mean. Perhaps he did not open the paper and 
thought it was only a cent. I shall try him again 
before I set him down here as very mean. 

“Friday, April 1st: I gave four cents to two 
boys with organ and tambourines. They played 
The Low-backed Car, also The Marseillaise, 
though they did not play this last to me, as they 
ought to.” 

Our aunt was brought up by a mother who was 
deeply religious and very charitable, and was taught 
that it should be a pleasure as well as a duty to give 
to the poor. Francesca learned from her own mother 
the delight of giving, and for many years the great 
work of her life was helping the poor in Italy. 

Uncle Alexander’s great talent and Aunt Lucia’s 
charming personality, with her ready wit and never- 
failing sympathy, attracted a large circle of friends to 
their home. When Mr. and Mrs. Dickens were in Bos¬ 
ton, they spent much of their time with our uncle and 
aunt, and in one of the latter’s scrap-books were sev¬ 
eral interesting and intimate letters from Mr. and Mrs. 
Dickens. Of a little book given him by Aunt Lucia he 
writes, “ I have received your beautiful book with ex¬ 
ceeding pleasure and will always preserve it carefully 
for your sake. I have scarcely the heart to rob you 
of such beautiful triumphs, and yet I would not be 
without them for a great deal.” The book was a tiny 


EARLY ASSOCIATIONS 


219 


one filled with miniature etchings by Aunt Lucia, 
who had talent for both painting and drawing. We 
have two exquisite little pictures painted by her when 
she was quite young, and have often heard of her won¬ 
derful etchings. 

In 1853, on account of Uncle Alexander’s health, he 
and our aunt decided to go abroad. They spent the 
summer in Paris, where Francesca studied music with 
Bordogni. In the autumn they went to the south of 
France, and from there by way of Leghorn to Florence. 
They had planned to spend only a year or two in 
Europe, but it was fifteen years before they returned 
to America. Often they had hoped to return, but 
many things happened to prevent: first an illness of 
Francesca’s, then two very serious illnesses of Uncle 
Alexander’s, and finally the Civil War in America. 

It was the end of the summer of 1868 when they 
returned to America, where they spent one year and 
then went back to Italy. From this time it became 
the dream of Aunt Lucia’s life that they might come 
back and have a home among their friends in Boston, 
but it was a dream never to be realized. Finally, for 
Francesca’s sake, she gave up all thought of ever com¬ 
ing again to America, and in 1883 decided to have her 
boxes, which had been stored for so many years, sent 
out to Italy. But she had lost all heart for the things 
that she had especially wanted to have in a home in 
America, and family portraits by Copley and Stuart 
were never unpacked: they remained in the basement 
of the Hotel Bonciani until they were returned to 
America in 1919. 


CHAPTER II 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 

When the Alexanders went abroad in 1853, Fran¬ 
cesca was only fifteen years old; consequently her early 
letters are the impressions of a very young girl. The 
following is to her little friend Lucy Woodbridge: 

“ Paris, 

July 14th, 1853. 

I will begin at the beginning and tell you 
about our journey. We left the old house, if I 
remember right, the evening of the day when you 
saw me last. And I was very sorry to leave it, 
for I knew I should never spend another night 
there. We spent that night at Grandpa’s, and 
the next morning went away. Grandpa went 
down to the depot with us, and Mr. Putnam from 
Lynn, who had been helping us pack up, met us 
there. When we were in the cars, Mr. Putnam 
bid us good-bye and went away. And then 
Grandpa did. I was sorry when he kissed me 
and said good-bye for the last time, for I was 
afraid he would be very lonely. But I did enjoy 
going in the cars that day on to New York. 

It was so beautiful to see the woods and pas¬ 
tures and gardens just in perfection. And Amer¬ 
ica is certainly, in point of beauty, far beyond 
any part of Prance that I have seen. We stayed 

220 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 221 

a day in New York and then we went away in 
the steamer. We drove down to the wharf and 
found it so covered with wagons and carriages 
that we could not go on board for a little while. 
And I would have given anything then if the 
vessel would have gone away and left me on 
shore. But I am very glad that it did not, for 
then I should never have seen the ocean nor the 
Cathedral of Rouen, to say nothing, in that case, 
of never appreciating my own beautiful country, 
which I always admired but never knew before 
how superior it was to others. A New York 
friend of ours met us on board the ship and was 
the last friend I saw, from New York to Paris. 
I enjoyed the voyage very much indeed, more, 
I think, than anything yet. You cannot think 
how beautiful the ocean is when there is no land 
in sight. I cannot tell exactly how it looks, be¬ 
cause there is nothing on shore to compare it to. 
The water is very black close by, and very blue a 
little way off, and there were two little rainbows, 
one on each side of the ship, that accompanied 
us all the way over. I was very fond of standing 
close by the paddle-wheel and watching the foam 
and the little rainbow come and go. 

There were two sisters from Venezuela, whom 
I drew, and I believe they were half Indians. 
They were called Eleonora and Victoria. One 
might have been twelve and the other fourteen. 
The eldest was about as determined as anybody 
I ever saw. When I was drawing her 3 I asked 


222 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


her if she were not tired. To which she always 
replied with a very decided ‘No/ and a smile, 
as if such a thing were impossible. And when 
at last I asked her if her neck did not ache, for 
she had been sitting very still, she answered in a 
half-indignant tone, ‘That is nothing; go on/ 
at the same time looking at me with solemn, in¬ 
tense black eyes, as if she wondered how I could 
think she could mind such a little thing as that. 
In consequence, partly of her perseverance, and 
partly of her pretty though somewhat Indian 
face, her picture is the best in the book. 

At last, one morning, Papa ran into the state¬ 
room where I was sitting, and said, ‘England is 
in full sight/ We went up on deck together, and 
there was the first land we had seen for nearly a 
fortnight. It was not nearly so pretty as the last 
view of America, though still it looked very 
pleasant. There were great rocks around the 
coast, and beyond them green hills. We saw but 
few villages and fewer woods, and I could not 
help wondering what the people did with so 
many green fields. Perhaps they were pastures. 
It was misty, but the sun kept striking here and 
there along the coast, and it looked beautiful. 
There were a great many ships and boats all 
around us, and so there were all day. It cleared 
up after a while, and then it looked better still. 
And we could see the land all day. 

About sunset, we came in sight of the Isle of 
Wight, and a more singular place I never saw. 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 223 

The first part of it that I saw was a long line of 
rocks, reaching out into the water, at first sepa¬ 
rate and then connected, and with a little line of 
sand by their side. These rocks were all pale 
whitish-grey, and of the most fanciful shapes. 
There were pillars and caverns and arches in 
abundance, and it looked just like the places 
princesses are carried off to in fairy tales. 
Pretty soon we passed the rocks and came to 
green hills, and then to woods. But by this time 
it was quite dark, and I could not see much. 
Only I could see light shining through the trees, 
and I knew people lived there. 

Pretty soon we came to Southampton, where 
the vessel stopped to let some of the passengers 
go on shore. The lamps were lit, and it looked 
very pretty, but I thought it was so late I would 
not stay on deck that night any longer. When 
I waked up in the morning, I could feel that the 
ship was still, and I climbed up on the settee and 
looked out of the port-hole. It was a misty 
morning, and there were a great many boats in 
sight. The water was green, and I knew I was 
close by Prance and the voyage was over. It 
seemed to me everybody on board was very polite 
that morning. They seemed determined to part 
good friends, and so we did. By the time I was 
on deck, two little French steamboats had come 
alongside to take us ashore. So when we had 
had our breakfast, we went. I, for one, was 
quite sorry to leave the splendid vessel where I 


224 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


had been so happy. The captain and the sailors 
waved their hats to us for good-bye, and I have 
not seen them since. 

Very soon we had something else to interest 
us. We came close to the city itself, which looked 
very strange to me. There were very curious 
old houses coming into sight, and we passed right 
under an old, round tower that must have been 
a fort. Then the people who came to the wharf 
to see us looked different from Americans. The 
men were dressed almost all in homespun, and 
the women wore caps instead of bonnets. Also 
there were a great many soldiers standing about, 
and it did not look like home at all. When we 
were on shore, we went to the Custom House and 
had all our things examined, which did not agree 
with my Yankee ideas of independence. But 
there was nothing else to do. There was a place 
where we waited while Papa saw to most of the 
baggage. And then the German lady bid us 
good-bye, saying in a most affectionate manner, 
‘I hope you will have much pleasure in the 
world.’ 

That afternoon we set off in the cars for 
Rouen, and I had a chance to see what the coun¬ 
try is like here. It is almost all cultivated, and 
the woods are planted in straight rows. The 
wild flowers are very pretty. I saw poppies in 
abundance. They are as common here as white- 
weed is with us. Also they have bachelor but¬ 
tons and escoltzia and other flowers which we 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 225 

raise in gardens. The apple trees looked pretty 
poor, and altogether the impression was what I 
told Papa, ‘It's not up to home/ The houses 
had many of them thatched roofs, and the poorer 
kind were covered, I should say, with boards or 
plaster. 

They did not have clapboarded houses, the way 
we do, but the boards were set up on end, after 
the fashion of our henhouses. As for your 
uncle’s barn, it would be a palace to many of 
the houses here. I have often, in America, seen 
houses as poor, but then they were evidently 
meant to be only for a little while, and when the 
owner makes more money, he builds a better 
house. 

We saw the Emperor and the Empress at the 
camp of Sartory near Versailles, and were very 
near them. The Emperor is quite a young man 
and looks rather melancholy, and a good deal 
like his portrait. The Empress is prettier than 
any picture of her that I have seen, but you 
might be disappointed in her, for she dresses 
very plainly, and looks very modest and quiet. 
She has blue eyes, brown hair, a fair complexion, 
rather small features. I hope that in a year’s 
time we shall go home, but I do not know. I am 
contented and happy and glad we came, though 
I miss home some and I’m a greater Yankee than 
ever. I am taking music lessons of Bordogni 
and coming on finely. And Papa is a great deal 
better and seems quite happy. And though 


226 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


Mamma was pretty homesick at first, she seems 
to enjoy herself very much now. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny.’ ’ 

La petite Blanchiseuse, drawn by Francesca in Paris, 
the first summer she spent in Europe, is one of the last 
pencil sketches of hers that we have. Very soon after, 
she began drawing in pen and ink. Later, for several 
years, she devoted much time to painting, with her 
father for her teacher. 

The Alexanders spent the summer of 1853 in Paris. 
Early in the autumn they went to the south of France, 
visiting Avignon and Marseilles, then by boat to Leg¬ 
horn, and from there to Florence. The following letter 
was written from Florence, November 1st: 

Francesca to Lucy Woodbridge: 

“Dear Lucy, 

Your descriptions of an afternoon at Lynn 
made me, for a while, very homesick, but I have 
about finished being homesick now. As for 
Mamma, I never saw her happier. We had quite 
a pleasant summer in Paris, but I must tell you 
now about our journey. From Paris to Chalons 
we went in the cars. The country was very beau¬ 
tiful, as is the whole of France which I have 
seen, but the villages looked poor. We spent 
Sunday at Chalons. The next morning we left 
in a steamboat on the Saone for Lyons.” . . . 

Francesca describes their visits to Avignon and 
Marseilles and then of their going by boat to Leghorn. 
She writes: 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 227 


“We arrived late in the evening. The next 
day I saw the city. One of the first things I 
noticed was that the women did not wear white 
caps, but silk handkerchiefs over their heads, or 
else veils of lace or muslin, which are the Liv- 
ornese fashion. I noticed also that the people 
were not so handsome as the French, and of 
course not nearly so handsome as the Americans. 

About one o’clock we left in the cars for Flor¬ 
ence. This city is very beautiful. I think one 
of the most beautiful things here is Giotto’s cam¬ 
panile. I have seen it often in the bright sun¬ 
shine, against a clear sky, when it looked so light 
it hardly seemed to rest heavily on the ground. 
I saw it the other night by moonlight, and then 
it was more beautiful than ever. It was hard to 
believe that it was solid. I will write you later 
about the galleries. The most beautiful pictures 
of all are by Perugino. I wish you could see his 
Assumption of the Virgin . She is going up in 
a glory of angels and looks as you might think 
any one would look going to Heaven. From our 
windows we see only the front of the Strozzi 
palace, which shuts out even the view of the 
sky.” 

“Florence, 

May 26, 1854. 

The house where we are staying is situated 
in a place where five narrow streets meet. The 
pension Svizzera is our hotel, close to the Via 
Tornabuoni, the Via del Sole and the Via della 


228 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


Vigna. The streets are narrow, and you keep 
passing old palaces all somewhat like the Strozzi, 
built of grey stone dark with age. The doors are 
almost all open, and we can look into pretty gar¬ 
dens with great magnolias and roses and lemon 
trees. There are hardly any woods about Flor¬ 
ence, none such as we have in America, but there 
is a very handsome ornamental grove a little way 
out of the city which takes the place of our com¬ 
mon. I walk there sometimes in the evening 
with Papa. 

There are many birds there and a beautiful 
view of the city and the hills. I can now speak 
the language much better than when I first came 
here. I take lessons from an English lady. She 
has very strange ideas about America. She said 
that England was larger than all the United 
States put together, and was quite surprised 
when I told her that Boston was not a walled 
city. She asked if we were not afraid of being 
attacked by Indians. Please give my love to 
Sarah and Rose and Mrs. Hooper, and tell Rose 
not to forget me. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny.’’ 

“Florence, June 16, 1855. 

Tomorrow is the 17th of June, so of course 
I’m a little homesick. I remember the beau¬ 
tiful flag they used to display at the Ana- 
wam House that day. Here of course nobody 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 229 

knows anything about Bunker Hill. Indeed, 
you would be very much surprised to hear the 
questions people here ask about America. They 
ask me whether Boston is a walled city, whether 
we keep slaves there, whether the slaves are gen¬ 
erally black, whether they worship idols, and I 
do not know what else. There is an English lady 
here who will insist upon it that the American 
Revolution took place about forty years ago, and 
an Italian woman who had announced to me her 
intention of learning to speak English and 
American, was quite relieved when I told her 
one was enough. I even went to teaching her, 
but she never would go beyond good-night, good¬ 
morning, good-bye, and how-do-you-do; and she 
never could imagine that those meant anything. 
When she said good-night, she always said 
‘Felicissima notte / 

June 18th: I had to leave my letter, to arrange 
some flowers which Papa brought me, and now I 
will tell you that I spent the 17th a good deal 
more pleasantly than I expected. Papa took me 
to San Miniato and asked the custode to leave 
us alone in the church. Then he walked around 
and looked at the pictures, and I went and sat in 
the choir all by myself. But I must make a rule 
not to write any more about San Miniato or I 
shall never write about anything else. I had al¬ 
most forgotten to tell you of the principal event 
that has happened to us, which is our purchase 
of a very splendid picture of the Coronation of 


230 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

the Madonna, said to be by Orgagna; how 
pleased you would be if you could see it, and how 
pleased I should be, too. The Madonna is bend¬ 
ing forwards to receive the crown, which the 
Saviour places on her head. She is very beau¬ 
tiful, but her expression makes you forget her 
beauty. It is the expression of one who has 
passed through a great deal of trouble and come 
to her reward at last. You never saw anything 
so sweet and humble as she is. She is too much 
subdued to be astonished. It seems to me it is a 
picture that could hardly fail to make anybody 
better who looked at it. There are several other 
figures in the picture; one of St. Catherine is re¬ 
markably beautiful, and remarkably gentle and 
lovely, too. There are six little angels in the 
foreground kneeling and singing, with bunches 
of red and white roses in their hands, with 
golden wings—made with real gold, you must 
remember,—and with light curls falling down 
on their embroidered dresses. One of them 
is looking up with just such a loving, trust¬ 
ing expression as you see sometimes in the 
face of a little child when it looks at any one 
of whom it is very fond indeed. Of course they 
are all children’s faces. One of the others is 
beating time, and turns around to see if the rest 
are attending. The execution of the picture is 
as beautiful as the design. The patterns on the 
dresses are all made out in gold, and the hair is 
drawn so fine that I wonder the painter’s eyes 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 231 


could have borne it. Also there is a gold back¬ 
ground wrought out into rays. As for the colors, 
they are so fine that when you stand too far off 
from the picture to see the faces, the colors alone 
make it beautiful. I am sometimes afraid that 
when you come to see my pictures you will be 
disappointed, for after all they have their faults. 
And yet, after I have written this, I cannot tell 
what their faults are. They are a good deal out 
of repair, but I do not think you can help liking 
them. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny . 9 7 


In June, 1856, the Alexanders moved out to Bellos- 
guardo, taking the lower floor of the Villa Brichieri; 
the floor above was occupied by Frederick Tennyson, 
with his Italian wife and their children. The Tenny- 
sons and the Alexanders became warm friends. 
Among our aunt’s letters were a number from Fred¬ 
erick Tennyson. 

Several congenial American families had villas at 
Bellosguardo; from here they could easily walk to the 
city, and yet it had all the charm and quiet of the 
country. Some of their artist friends from America 
had studios in Florence, and many other Americans 
whom they also greatly enjoyed seeing were con¬ 
stantly coming. It was during these years that they 
made a number of their dearest and lifelong Italian 
friends, and here Francesca began her work among the 
poor contadini. 

The first letter from Bellosguardo is from Francesca 
to Miss Lucy Woodbridge. 


232 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


“Bellosguardo, September 1, 1856. 

Dear Lucy: 

I told you when I last wrote that we were 
going to Arezzo, and that I would write and tell 
you all about it. So you must have wondered at 
not hearing from me for so long. But to tell the 
truth, we never went to Arezzo at all, and I have 
had too much to do all summer to think about 
writing. However, the letter will be long enough 
when it comes, for I have almost six months to 
tell you of. Soon after that letter went, we be¬ 
gan to look for a villa. We had about enough 
of a summer in Florence last year when the 
cholera was there, and in the course of time we 
concluded to take the lower story of Villa 
Brichieri here at Bellosguardo, where we now 
are. We came here about the middle of June 
and found the story over our heads occupied by 
Mr. Frederick Tennyson, the brother of your fa¬ 
vorite poet, with a pretty Italian wife and five 
children, of whom I will tell you in a little while. 
But first I must tell you about the place we live 
in. Maybe you have heard of Bellosguardo. It 
is a beautiful hill close by Florence, and very 
steep on the Florentine side, being all cut into 
terraces to accommodate the olives and grape¬ 
vines. At the very top stands Villa Ombrellino, 
where all the strangers go to see the prospect, 
and a little below Villa Ombrellino is Villa 
Brichieri. 

It is quite a handsome place from the road, 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 233 

a large two-story house covered with yellow 
plaster, and having two balconies, one over the 
other, with the arms of the Brichieri Colombi 
family up under the roof. But it is quite beau¬ 
tiful inside, being three hundred years old, with 
great arched rooms and the thickest walls, I 
think, that ever I saw in a private house. In 
front of the house is a very pretty yard, with a 
great many trees and bushes—rose-bushes, in 
particular, that blossom all the time. Then at 
the back we have a quiet, retired little garden 
with a great magnolia tree in the middle, always 
reminding me of home. And at the end of the 
garden is a broad terrace paved with brick, 
where we walk in the evenings. 

As for the view, it is rather difficult to de¬ 
scribe, but I will try. To our left is the Valley 
of the Arno, a great smooth green plain, covered 
with farms and woods and little white villages, 
and bounded on all sides by mountains, which 
rise from it as from a lake. Papa said it prob¬ 
ably was a lake once. Through this valley runs 
the road to Leghorn, marked by an almost un¬ 
broken line of houses and churches from Flor¬ 
ence to the mountains. A great way off on one 
side of a mountain, I could see my beautiful city 
of Prato, and in clear weather I can make out 
that very campanile that I wrote you about. 
When it is very clear indeed, I can see Pistoia at 
the very farthest end of the valley, but it is not 
much more than a very bright line. This is a 


234 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


very poor description of the valley but it is bet¬ 
ter, after all, than any I shall probably be able 
to give you of the mountains. They are so 
strange, and different from any you and I ever 
saw in America. If the plain looks like a lake, 
these hills look like some gigantic sort of ocean. 
Indeed they are more the shape of waves than 
anything I can think of, and they rise in the 
same way,—ridge behind ridge, as far as we can 
see. Some of these mountains are partly cov¬ 
ered with woods, but most of them are bare, at 
least of large trees, and the vineyards and the 
olive orchards do not show much from a distance. 

Scattered over and among the hills, some near 
and some far away, are any number of little vil¬ 
lages, and great convents and churches, with lit¬ 
tle clusters of cypress trees by their sides, and 
old stone towers that were once, I suppose, forti¬ 
fications. We can see Galileo’s Tower on one 
side and a little to the left of it, San Miniato, 
which I told you of before. I care more for San 
Miniato than for any other part of the prospect. 
And we have a beautiful view of it, with its mar¬ 
ble front and its broken tower, the great dark 
convent by its side and the old mosaic over the 
door. On our right hand, between the hills in a 
sort of basin, is Florence, close by us and directly 
under us, with the great dome rising over all the 
city. Beyond Florence we can see Fiesole. 

But I think I have told you quite enough 
about the place where we live, only I want you to 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 235 

imagine the shadow of the clouds shifting and 
changing over everything all day long. Having 
described the place, I must next try to give you 
some idea of our household. We have a man 
whom Papa hired for no other reason in the 
world except because he was honest. He bears 
the cheerful name of Gaetano Allegri, and has an 
expression according, looking as perfectly happy 
as one could well imagine. But whatever his 
good qualities may be, he is certainly not bril¬ 
liant, nor yet stylish. I wish you could see him 
when he comes, in one of Papa’s coats, to an¬ 
nounce dinner. He opens the door just a crack 
and swings forward into the room, balanced on 
one foot and holding on by the handle of the 
door. Fie then says, ‘Pronto!’ looks at us for 
a minute with a benevolent smile, and disap¬ 
pears. Fie is our cook and has learned to make 
chowder, fish-balls, and other American dishes. 

Our chambermaid is quite a different charac¬ 
ter. She is a tall, middle-aged woman who walks 
over from Monticelli, a pretty little village in the 
neighborhood, every morning, has her breakfast, 
does her work, and goes back again. She was 
altogether ignorant when she first came, and we 
have made quite an accomplished woman of her, 
she being naturally a genius. I remember when 
I was trying to teach her how to make a bed, I 
took hold to help. But she put my arm back 
hastily, saying, ‘Stop! Don’t do that! You 
know what they say.’ 


236 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

‘No/ said I, ‘what do they say?’ 

‘They say that if two make a bed, the young¬ 
est will die within the year. You are younger 
than I. But it is not true,’ she added, fearing 
she had alarmed me. 

To tell the truth, our good Maria has her pe¬ 
culiarities. I believe geniuses generally do. 
Her manners are a queer mixture: half wild, 
half ceremonious. She makes beautiful courte¬ 
sies, and a great many of them, and never speaks 
to me of Mr. Alexander, but always of His Lord- 
ship, your Papa. She has, however, an unfor¬ 
tunate habit of swearing, though she seldom says 
anything worse than ‘Holy Mother!’ 

So with this establishment, we set up house¬ 
keeping, in this queer old Cinquecento house. 
Of course it was not long before I made ac¬ 
quaintances with the little girls overhead. In 
less than a week we were the best of friends. 
There were three of them, of whom I must tell 
you, one by one. 

The eldest was Eliza. She was eight years old 
and one of the most beautiful creatures that ever 
I saw. She had fine dark hair that never would 
keep braided nor fastened any way, but hung in 
great heavy folds on the side of her face. Her 
eyes were dark greyish blue, large and bright, 
with long, black eyelashes. Her features would 
have been beautiful cut in marble, and her ex¬ 
pression, though it had a little touch of melan¬ 
choly when it was still, was uncommonly lively 


/ 

/ 


j 

j 

5 

i 

j 


1 


1 

\ 


I 



V .v 

> {/•; 


|V. ft 




Eliza Tennyson 

From an early pen and ink sketch by Francesca Alexander 





































































THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 237 

and quick-changing when she spoke. She was 
very bright, too, and poetical. They say all the 
family are that. But she could speak in rhyme 
as fast as she could in prose, and she spoke such 
pretty Italian. She was, however, unfortunately 
both sensitive and high-tempered. 

The second daughter was Emily. She was 
pretty, though not such a regular beauty, and she 
had a very sweet voice and a pleasant, easy tem¬ 
per. Her mother said she was the best of all the 
family, and I think, myself, she gave the least 
trouble. But when she was angry, it was a piece 
of work to pacify her. Still, with me she was 
gentle and quiet, and always ready to help me 
when I had anything to do. 

But after all, I think little Matilda, the young¬ 
est girl, who was only four years old, was the 
best of the three. She was a delicate little thing, 
as bright as Eliza and as gentle as Emily. And 
as for temper, she had none. When the other 
girls were at school, she would walk all over the 
house and garden as quietly as a little bird, talk¬ 
ing and singing to herself, and inventing little 
plays and playing them all alone, sometimes in 
her part of the house, sometimes in ours. And 
if she were tired, she would climb up into my 
lap, curl herself up like a little kitten, and go to 
sleep. If she had any fault, I should say she was 
a little too fond of teasing poor Eliza, who, being 
too tender-hearted to hurt a mosquito, always let 
loose her anger in a great storm of words, to the 


238 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

great entertainment of her little sister. But I 
ought not to say anything against Eliza, for she 
was extravagantly fond of me. She was at 
school all day, and in the evening she would run 
on up the hill before Emily and the servant, so 
that she might be with me as soon as possible. I 
can imagine that I see her before me while I 
write, as she used to come from behind the 
bushes that grow in front of our house, in her 
little pink dress, looking hard into the twilight 
to see where I was, and as soon as she saw me, 
running straight into my arms as if she had not 
seen me for a year. Then Emily would come, in 
a rather cooler manner, and little Matilda was 
never far off. So we would go, all together, on 
to our back terrace, and play ‘old man in the 
castle * or something equally lively. 

Sometimes they used to act out an opera for 
my particular benefit. Or if the little girls were 
tired, we would sit down and tell stories, some¬ 
times till late at night. For children do not keep 
such early hours here as they do with us, and 
you yourself might have been tempted to stay 
and let them stay till pretty late, especially when 
there was a full moon. It used to be so pleasant. 
Sometimes our amusements took a more sober 
character, and they used to ask me all sorts of 
questions about this world and the next which I 
was not very well able to answer. 

To tell the truth, the poor children had been 
very much neglected and had strange ideas. One 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 239 

Sunday evening I had been telling them about 
my grandmother—how good she was and how 
kind she was to me, and how she looked and 
dressed and spoke, and a great many things 
which I like to tell to children, when all at once 
Emily said, ‘Where is she nowf 

‘In Heaven/ said I, ‘up above the stars.’ 

At this they all looked at the stars, which were 
shining very thick overhead, as if they thought 
they could measure the distance with their eyes. 
And Emily said, ‘ Oh, how high it is! Shall you 
ever go there?’ 

‘I hope so,’ said I, ‘I shall if I’m good.’ 

‘Oh, how glad you’ll be to see your grand¬ 
mother,’ said she. 

Another time Matilda asked me if fireflies did 
not belong to God. She said she thought they 
did; they were so good. Then Eliza wished to 
know if she could ever be good enough to go to 
Heaven, and when she found it was not impossi¬ 
ble, she immediately set about it, and really be¬ 
came a great deal better before she went away. 
She said perhaps she and I might both be good 
and both die at the same time, and so meet, half¬ 
way to Heaven. She did not think we should 
know each other at first, with wings, but it would 
be very pleasant recognizing each other, and then 
making the rest of the journey together, and 
finally entering Heaven hand in hand. She 
fairly clapped her hands with delight when she 
thought of it. But at last my little children went 


240 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

away, and the house was lonely enough without 
them. I suppose I shall never see them again, 
for the two eldest are going to school in Genoa, 
and little Matilda is to stay with her parents, 
who are now at the seaside. And now, Lucy, do 
write to me soon, and give my best love to Sarah 
and dear little Rose. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny.’’ 

“Bellosguardo, December 29,1857. 

Dear Lucy: 

What shall I tell you about ? I have been 
living quietly at Bellosguardo. Last winter I 
was in Florence, confined almost altogether to 
the house. Georgina Putnam was very kind. 
She came to see me nearly every day, when I was 
well enough to see her, and indeed you can’t 
think how much kindness I received from every 
one. The country girls from Bellosguardo used 
to come very often and bring me presents of 
fruit and flowers. 

I must tell you about some of my contadine 
friends. The country people here live in the 
queerest little old stone houses. It doesn’t seem 
as if they had built any new houses for hundreds 
of years. The people and the cattle live under 
the same roof, only in different rooms. As for 
the roof itself, it is generally of dark tiles, over¬ 
grown with yellow moss, and the eaves project 
far over the walls. The walls are very thick and 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 241 

the windows very little, the chimneys very large 
and built in fanciful shapes. On the sunny side 
of the house there is usually a terrace,—a pic¬ 
turesque, rubbishy place where the old women do 
their spinning and the little girls make their 
straw braid. 

The usual dress of the women is a chemise of 
coarse, homespun linen, a close-fitting bodice 
laced behind, a blue, homespun petticoat and a 
cotton handkerchief and apron. It does not 
sound very pretty, but it is very becoming to a 
graceful figure, and the better sort of contadine 
are very neat. You will seldom see a spot on 
their white sleeves. On Sundays and feast-days, 
they dress like Americans; only instead of bon¬ 
nets they wear large hats of their own braiding. 
They wear a great deal of jewelry, especially 
coral and pearls, and they have not the least ob¬ 
jection to wearing two necklaces at once. 

They almost all have a fine form to the lower 
part of the face, but some of them have project¬ 
ing cheek-bones, which make them look like In¬ 
dians, and they are apt to injure their figures by 
working too hard. The handsomest women come 
from the mountains. I have seen some monta- 
nine who were almost perfectly beautiful,—face, 
figure, and all. It seems to me that almost all 
of these poor Tuscans have such sunny, happy 
natures that it quite makes up to them for all 
their poverty. I know a great many respectable 
girls, some very ladylike ones, who spend the 


242 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


best part of their lives cutting grass and carry¬ 
ing it to the cattle. The cattle are kept shut up, 
and there are no pastures; and these girls say 
they like it. 

They are always singing. By the way, some 
of their songs are quite pretty. I will sing you 
some when I go home. I have heard a brother 
and sister, working in different parts of the same 
farm, keep up a sort of conversation in singing. 
The young man would sing a verse, then the girl 
would answer with another. Sometimes two lov¬ 
ers, whose farms adjoin, will do the same thing. 
Perhaps, Lucy, I’ve written too much about 
these people. I cannot bring up to you, after all, 
a Tuscan farm, with its silver-grey olive trees 
and dark cypresses, and its little green foot¬ 
paths sprinkled with red-tipped daisies. 

I have been having a Christmas tree for some 
of the little children. We had the room dressed 
with evergreen; it was very pretty. Do give my 
love to Sarah Barnard and little Rose. Please 
do write to me when you have time. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny.” 

Aunt Lucia did not care for evening entertain¬ 
ments, but preferred to stay quietly at home with 
Uncle Alexander and Francesca. The invitations which 
they received to the many great balls given in Florence 
were rarely accepted, although occasionally Uncle Alex¬ 
ander would take Francesca to one, if it happened to be 
in some old palace which she wished to see in its gala 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 243 

dress. She did not dance herself, but enjoyed watching 
the guests and being presented to some of the celebri¬ 
ties. Two of these balls she describes in her letters to 
Miss Lilly Cleveland. 

“Bellos guar do, January 1, 1860. 

Dear Lilly: 

My best wishes for a Happy New Year to 
you. I can’t tell you how happy it made me to 
hear that you thought of coming back to us. You 
say you are as happy now as you ever expect to 
be, but only come here and you shall be a great 
deal happier, if anything I can do will make you 
so. You would go around all the farms with me, 
and think how glad all the contadini would be to 
see you back again. Some evening in May you 
will go to San Vito with me and hear the women 
and children sing the litany, just after sunset, 
with the altar covered with candles and the 
bright light shining into their fresh country 
faces. And if you should ever become tired of 
country sights and sounds, the city will be very 
gay next Spring. 

We are to have Prince Umberto here in the 
spring, our king’s son, who is to be king himself 
one of these days, if he lives. And who knows 
but he might cut out the Prince of Wales! He 
is better looking, Lilly, really he is, and they say 
he is very good. The worst sin I ever heard laid 
to his charge was that he had a taste for firing off 
guns, and that is nothing very bad. Don’t you 
think he would suit you? And then I know 


244 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


you’ll come and pass a day with me, just as you 
used to, and bring over Tennyson in your pocket. 
There is to be a great ball tonight in Palazzo 
Yecchio, and for a wonder I’m going. I will 
leave my letter open and tell you about it. . . . 

January 2,1861: I’m sure you must have been 
very much surprised to hear of my going to the 
ball, but to tell the truth, I could not resist the 
temptation to see the splendid old palace illumi¬ 
nated, for I never yet saw a palace to be com¬ 
pared to it. I always meant to see one of those 
great balls some time or other, and of course I 
would rather it should be in Palazzo Vecchio 
than anywhere else. It was a great deal finer 
than I expected. So many rooms, and all beau¬ 
tiful and all different. There was one room, an 
immensely large one, which had been fitted up 
for Leo X, when he visited Florence, and never 
altered since. It looked very grand and ancient, 
with frescoes by Giorgio Vasari (whom I like, 
though he is out of fashion now), and with such 
a great old-fashioned marble chimney-piece 
carved in Cinquecento style, but it was so high 
that one would have wanted a tall ladder to reach 
up to it. There were old busts in niches, and 
everything just as it must have been three hun¬ 
dred years ago. There was nothing else that 
pleased me quite so much as this room, though 
the refreshment room was very beautiful, hung 
all around with tapestries representing the 
stories of Esther. 

' K < 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 245 

There was a candelabra in this room which 
was very pretty, the candles having a great 
basket of flowers in the centre, and the rope, by 
which they were suspended from the ceiling, be¬ 
ing entwined and quite covered with ivy. But 
there were so many flowers and so beautiful! All 
the rooms were full of them, and I believe all 
the gardeners about Florence were employed. 
As it was rather difficult at this season to find 
flowering plants, they had supplied the deficiency 
by taking plants not in blossom and tying flowers 
on to them. I was particularly struck with the 
beauty of one flowering shrub of a sort I had 
never seen before. On going to examine it, it 
proved to be a camilia, on which they had tied a 
number of white giunchiglie . But if I tell you 
so much about the decorations, I shall leave no 
room to tell you about the company, though to 
tell you the truth, I had seen people in ball 
dresses before, and I never saw anything like 
that old palace. 

About half the people, at least half the gentle¬ 
men, were in uniform, which had a very brilliant 
effect, and some of them wore so many stars and 
crosses. I saw an old Piemontese general who 
had so many decorations he could hardly find 
room to hang them all, though he was a very 
large man indeed. 

The prettiest lady present was a little Ameri¬ 
can girl, a clergyman’s daughter, with beautiful 
golden hair and an innocent, modest face, like a 


246 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

saint. There were some very pretty Florentine 
ladies, too, and one quite beautiful English girl. 
There was an English officer, an old gentleman. 
I had never seen one, and his uniform puzzled 
me a good deal. I thought he was a Garibaldian, 
because he wore scarlet, until I heard him speak. 
I had the honor to be introduced to our Governor 
Ricasoli, very much to my surprise, for it was 
the last thing I should have thought of. But 
Mr. Brichieri, as he was walking through one of 
the rooms with me, saw the Governor’s brother, 
whom he knows, and introduced me to him. He 
is a handsome old gentleman, and lives at Mari - 
nogli, not very far from us; and the first thing 
he proposed was to present me to the Governor. 
Of course I accepted most gladly, and he gave me 
his arm and conducted me across the room, Papa 
and Mr. Brichieri following, and I feeling so 
confused and astonished that I hardly knew 
what I was doing. 

The Governor was standing behind a column, 
talking to several persons, and we had to wait 
a few minutes, so I had a good sight of him, and 
I know you will want to hear what he is like. He 
is not at all good-looking, and he has changed 
very much for the worse since I saw him a year 
ago. He is somewhat bent now, and looks very 
old and thin, but seemed to enjoy himself as well 
as anybody, talking with much animation and 
using his hands a good deal, in the Italian fash¬ 
ion. Pretty soon, when the others had finished, 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 247 

the old gentleman who conducted me led me up 
and presented me. The Governor recognized my 
name at once and spoke to me so kindly that I 
was not at all frightened after the first minute. 
He is very polite and a little old-fashioned hi his 
manner, but as unpretending as possible, and 
does not seem to remember that he is a Governor 
or in any way different from the rest of us. He 
was dressed quite plainly, with nothing to dis¬ 
tinguish him from the other people present. 
After addressing a few words to me, he spoke to 
Mr. Brichieri and Papa, and I noticed that he 
looked very attentively at any one with whom 
he was speaking, and never lost a word that was 
addressed to him. He seemed, however, to be 
nearly blind. I do not think he sees anything 
that is not close to him. The last thing that he 
said was that he was coming to see us, which I 
repeat to you, as I think it well, to make the most 
of a promise which I am quite sure will never 
be fulfilled. 

Among the other persons of celebrity present, 
Sir John Bowring was presented to me,—a fine- 
looking man but very aged and much bent. His 
wife was with him, a young and pretty lady 
whom he has just married. It seems horrid to 
me for a girl to marry such an old man, and yet 
they do it. You know Carolina Nardi said she 
would, if she could find an old gentleman who 
was rich and if it were not for Felice Pistolesi. 

Do write to me soon again. Much love to your 


248 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


Mamma, and tell her I hope she will bring you 
to me in the spring. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny .’ 9 

“Bellosguardo, March 14, 1861. 

Dear Lilly: 

We are having a sweet early spring; the 
almond trees are all in blossom, and our house is 
always full of beautiful flowers. We have had 
the little Princes here. I was a little disap¬ 
pointed that there was no procession, and that 
the Princes proved to be two rather shy-looking 
little boys, with gray capes and hair brushed 
very smooth. 

Prince Umberto is rather good-looking, with 
a fair fresh face and pleasant smile, but I liked 
the other the best, he was so little and looked so 
frightened and forlorn. He does not look more 
than twelve years old, though they say he is 
fifteen, and he has nothing pretty about him, 
excepting his hair, which looks very soft and 
fine. 

They say he has some illness or other, but no¬ 
body seems to know what it is. He has a yellow, 
melancholy little face, and when he came in he 
held his head down, and made queer little bows 
to one side. The Governor came with them, also, 
a very large, stout man, who went everywhere 
with them while they stayed in Florence. They 
were much liked here, especially the elder, 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 249 

though some of the Codini called them ugly, but 
every one agreed that they were very good, and 
well behaved. 

One of my neighbors here is a very great Co¬ 
ding and says the Florentines are all dead, that 
there is no masking this year worth going to see, 
and that our horrid government is at the bottom 
of it. You know, I suppose, that we are to have 
a great exhibition here in September, and I have 
taken it into my head to send something, myself. 
It seems a strange thing for me to do, does it 
not? 

March 1st, it is, nearly a month now since I 
began this letter, and here I take it up again on 
the birthday of our good King. He is proclaimed 
King of Italy today, the Italians having con¬ 
cluded to make him a birthday present of their 
country. The cannon have been firing in the city 
this morning, and in the evening there is to be 
an illumination. 

I am engaged now on my picture for the ex¬ 
hibition. It represents a Saint Agnese with her 
lamb, and I am doing it in pen and ink, for I do 
not paint well enough yet in colors. 

I find myself making all sorts of plans for next 
May. I will tell you all the legends and sing you 
all the songs you wish to hear. We have had our 
garden put in order, and I think it will look very 
pretty in May. You and I must drink tea to¬ 
gether once again on the terrace; my roses and 
jessamines will be all in blossom then. Do you 


250 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

remember what a nice sideboard the terrace wall 
used to make ? And now with love to you all, 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny Alexander.” 


To Miss Lucy Woodbridge: 

“Bellosguardo, April 6,1861. 

Dear Lucy: 

I am very much obliged for your photo¬ 
graph, which still has a good deal of your old 
self, though grown very womanly, so that I did 
not recognize it at first; I thought it very pretty 
before I knew who it was, and prettier when I 
found out. And now I will tell you why I could 
not answer you before. 

I do not know if you have heard of the great 
exhibition which we are to have here in Septem¬ 
ber, but really it is going to be something very 
grand; our good Prince Eugenio is to be the 
president, and there will be contributions from 
every part of Italy. Now it was the first very 
ambitious thing I ever undertook, but I did want 
very much to send somethmg of mine. That was 
why I could not write to you before: I had to 
give all my eyesight and attention to my draw¬ 
ing. 

Saint Agnese was the subject I chose, sitting 
under an olive tree with her lamb: I have done 
her at last, and she looks very pretty, but my 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 251 


heart rather fails me about sending it. I wish 
you could see the model I had for Saint Agnese, 
she was such a sweet little thing from the moun¬ 
tains. I never saw so much beauty of a certain 
kind as there is among the Tuscan mountain 
girls, all of the refined saintly sort: a handsome 
mountain girl looks always as if she had stepped 
out of an old altar piece. I have a great deal 
now which I should like to say to you, and I can¬ 
not, because there are two pictures which must 
be done this week, and I have been hard at work 
all the morning and my eyes are already tired. 
So with a great deal of love, and hoping to hear 
from you soon, I must leave my letter. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny /’ 


To Miss Lilly Cleveland: 


“Bellosguardo, October 26,1861. 

Dear Lilly: 

I do wish you could have been here this 
autumn. So much there has been to see; our 
beautiful exhibition, and the King and the 
Princes, and all the time such beautiful weather. 
Such a succession of bright warm days. One day 
Papa brought me an invitation to a ball at Pa¬ 
lazzo Pitti, and he and Mamma were both so anx¬ 
ious that I should go, and it was really such a 
great temptation; (though I had never meant to 
go to any more balls) that I finally went under 


252 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

Papa’s care, and was very glad afterwards that 
I did, for I had a most delightful time, and was 
not nearly so tired afterwards as I expected. 

We stood near the King for as much as an 
hour, and I had a chance to see not only how he 
looked but how he spoke and behaved. He was 
better looking than I thought, having lost the 
sunburn which used to make him look like a 
contadino, and besides he looked better with his 
hat off, as his forehead and hair are both hand¬ 
some. He looked honest and determined, as we 
all know he is, but not in very good spirits. I 
had always heard that he had a ‘viso giovale/ 
but I am sure it was anything but that. He 
looked to me like quite an unhappy man, espe¬ 
cially when he smiled, he had such a strange 
melancholy smile, and it came so seldom and was 
gone so soon. For the rest he was quite a con¬ 
trast to the four or five old-fashioned Italians 
who were gathered about him, with their quick 
easy motions, and free use of their hands, and 
gentle, ceremonious manner. He stood upright 
and still, like a soldier on parade, and if he wished 
to look at anything in another direction, wheeled 
his whole figure around, as soldiers do in some 
of the exercises; without changing the position 
of his head or shoulders or hands. He was very 
erect, standing with his head a little thrown 
back, his hat in one hand and the other hanging 
straight down by his side. The principal thing 
remarkable about him was that he looked so won- 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 253 

derfully in earnest. I think it would be impossi¬ 
ble that he should ever make believe. As for his 
manner, I cannot call it condescending, it is too 
simple for that; he never appears to feel that 
there is any difference between himself and those 
whom he addresses. 

No one seemed at all afraid of him, and no one 
used any particular ceremony towards him: I do 
not think he would have liked it if they had: He 
talked freely with all those around him, and 
seemed to work pretty hard trying to entertain 
his friends. Altogether he was as different as 
possible from my idea of a King, and yet there 
was a certain stateliness about him, something 
imposing in his very unconsciousness, where the 
eyes of so many hundred people were fixed upon 
him. For our King was the centre of attraction, 
as I need hardly say, and there was little danc¬ 
ing while he remained in the room. 

Prince Eugenio was there. ‘Biondo e hello, e 
di gentile aspetto’ like Manfridi; he looked quite 
grand in the collar of the Annunziata, and ap¬ 
peared to enjoy himself highly. Then there was 
General Fauti (whom you ought to like, as he is 
the liberator of Perugia), a tall, dark, very hand¬ 
some man, stately in his manner and treated with 
much respect by every one, even by the King 
himself. 

I have spent a good deal of time of course this 
autumn, at the exposition, but it is impossible 
even to begin to describe it. Still something I 


254 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


must tell you. It is a wonderful sight. The pal¬ 
ace is almost a little city in itself, and as for the 
productions of all sorts exhibited, they are so 
many and so beautiful they have even had the 
effect of making me more proud of this iella 
Italia than ever I was before, which is saying a 
great deal. 

Our Florence shows for quite as much as any 
city, I am happy to say, and in some things, such 
as mosaics and straw braid, none of the others 
come near it. Milan sends beautiful silks and 
brocades, and so does Torino. Palermo, which I 
always supposed to be at the end of civilization, 
sends, I think, the finest ‘lavori intarsiate’ (I do 
not know the English word, but you know what I 
mean) ; and even poor Venezia sends beautiful 
work in silver and in glass. The Republic of 
San Marino has a small round table all to itself, 
surmounted by a handsome blue and white silk 
flag, and containing one or two very small 
cheeses, a few specimens of wine and oil in little 
bottles, three or four minerals, and some quite 
pretty artificial flowers. The prettiest baskets 
were from some little out-of-the-way villages in 
Sicilia, and they were almost the prettiest I ever 
saw. I bought one pretty enough to make a pic¬ 
ture of. 

I do not know where the prettiest embroidery 
came from, almost all Italian ladies seem to have 
a natural gift for that kind of work, but that 
which interested me most was some not very 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 255 


fine, yet sufficiently neat and pretty, done by the 
blind girls in the Asylum at Torino. 

Mr. Pietro Romanelli, the husband of my good 
Mrs. Eliza, has sent a pretty figure of William 
TelFs son with the apple on his head, and, to the 
great satisfaction of us all, the King bought it, 
and paid a large price for it. Of course Mrs. 
Eliza has become more fond of the King than 
ever, if that is possible. The King and Prince 
Eugenio have bought largely at the exposition, 
and, so far as I can judge, with very good taste. 
Among the pictures, it seems to me they have 
bought nearly all the best ones. 

Your uncle Mr. Charles Perkins 7 children, 
‘your children, 7 came to see me a short time 
ago. Eddie has grown so strong and handsome. 
May was very entertaining and sang me ‘Padre 
Francesco 9 and ‘Italia malata / Carlino is now 
considered the beauty of the family, with his 
great dark eyes. With love to you all and a 
double portion for yourself, 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny Alexander. 77 


To Miss Lucy Woodbridge: 

“Bellosguardo, January 6, 1862. 

Dear Lucy: 

Your last letter was written in so much 
better spirits that it was quite a relief to me. 
For myself, I have enough to do with my paint¬ 
ing, in which I improve steadily, though not so 


256 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


fast as I could wish; but I must have patience. 
I am looking about now for a handsome old lady; 
the young contadine women are very pretty, but 
they grow terribly weather-beaten in their old 
age. Meanwhile, I am pretty well off for young 
subjects; pretty sunburnt country girls are 
plenty enough and as they all have bright eyes 
and red cheeks, I have no cause for complaint, 
though I do wish golden hair were not such 
a rarity: one can hardly paint saints with¬ 
out it. 

There is one red-haired woman in the neigh¬ 
borhood, which makes a little variety with black 
and brown, but unfortunately she is very plain 
and not very young. Still, she is better than 
nothing. But I think I have written enough, 
even on such an interesting subject as myself 
and my own affairs, and besides, it is growing 
dark. Do write to me again and tell me all about 
yourself and how you are and what you are do¬ 
ing. Do tell me about your brother, too, and his 
wife; do you kpow you forgot to tell me who she 
was? You must remember that I do not hear 
the American news out here: except, of course, 
the public news, which I could excuse. I am 
glad I am away from America now; it was bad 
enough when the war was going on here. And 
now with much love from Mamma as well as my¬ 
self, believe me, dear Lucy, 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny Alexander.” 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 257 

Extracts from some letters from Francesca to Miss 
Lilly Cleveland: 

“Bellosguardo, September 11, 1863. 
Dear Lilly: 

I am very busy now painting Cinderella. 
I do wish you could see my old chimney. I have 
to go down to an old farmhouse, some way off, 
to paint it. The road I have to walk in is one of 
the prettiest in Tuscany: the olive trees hanging 
over the wall, the autumn roses in the hedges, the 
little white butterflies among the yellow thistles, 
and the view of the Yal d’Arno and the moun¬ 
tains coming in sight at every turn of the road. 

After Grigia and I arrive, I soon establish my¬ 
self at an easel in such a queer, picturesque old 
kitchen with a Madonna in a niche and a very 
little window covered with vine leaves, and a 
chimney which looks as if it must have been built 
as far back as Griotto’s time at least, with a seat 
in the corner on purpose for Cinderella to sit 
on. When Paolina seats herself there, I feel as 
if Cinderella was before me. The cross sisters 
are to be introduced just setting off for the 
ball. . . 

“Villa Brichieri, November, 1863. 

Dear Lilly: 

We were all delighted with your letter 
giving us such an interesting account of your 
journey. Now perhaps you would like to hear of 


258 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

a piece of good fortune which has happened to 
me. 

Mrs. Gardner from Boston, who is spending a 
few months here, has given me an order for a 
large picture, larger than I ever painted yet. It 
is to represent two contadine arranging some 
flowers before a Madonna. The price which I 
am to receive for this picture will be enough to 
last all the poor people for a great while, and the 
very next day after I received this order, a letter 
came from Bessie Mason, enclosing, for the 
benefit of the poor, a larger sum than I ever re¬ 
ceived before at one time. 

We have had and are having dreadful weather, 
with continued rain for many days. The Arno 
has overflowed, as well as most of the smaller 
streams; the greater part of the valley, as I see 
it from my window, is under water, in some 
places eight braccia deep. The poor terrified 
people have gone up onto the roofs of the houses 
for safety, and the Government is sending boats. 
Last night Ponte Veccliio was considered in dan¬ 
ger ; the water filled its arches and almost swept 
over it, but the dear old bridge kept its place as 
it has done for five hundred years. . . 

“December 31, 1863. 

We had a delightful Christmas. It was a 
beautiful sunny day, with roses all in bloom in 
the garden. We had over sixty contadini. I 
wish you could have seen the presents they 


THE FIRST YEARS IN FLORENCE 259 


brought me. There were so many, we arranged 
them on the billiard table, and that was quite 
covered. There were twelve bunches of flowers, 
and as for the lemons, apples, and pears, and the 
baskets of figs, one could not even pretend to 
count them. The tree was very pretty, and I 
think I spent your money to advantage. It 
bought a great many pretty things, which cer¬ 
tainly gave a great deal of pleasure. Carolina 
Pistolesi’s youngest little girl had a very ugly 
cat with ferocious green eyes which, as it could 
be made to mew in a loud and harsh voice, was 
more admired than anything else on the tree. 

I had almost forgotten to tell you what was 
the prettiest present I had for Christmas. It 
was from Mamma. It was a little old Latin 

prayer-book bound in silver most beautifully 
wrought. It is very ancient and looks like Geno¬ 
vese work, and I never saw any binding half so 
pretty. . . 


CHAPTER III 


ABETONE 

Among the many descriptions written of the Alex¬ 
anders’ life in Italy, and their work among the poor, 
was one by Mr. W. J. Stillman which was published in 
the London Critic. We give some extracts from it here, 
because it describes so well the life at Abetone, al¬ 
though it was published at a later date after Ruskin’s 
enthusiastic admiration and praise of Francesca’s work 
had made her famous. Mr. Stillman writes: 

“ The valley in the Apennines, where I passed the 
summer of 1883, is the valley to which Ruskin alludes, 
in his lecture on the realistic schools of painting of 
England, where he says that Miss Alexander, ‘ the 
American girl,’ of the lecture, has lived with her mother 
among the peasants of Tuscany. Into this valley came 
Mrs. Alexander and Francesca twenty years ago, and 
settled for the summer at the head of it, where there 
was no habitation more dignified than the little cot¬ 
tage which they still keep and in which they have 
passed the summers ever since. Close by has grown up 
a summer resort known from the contiguous fir forest 
and forestry of the Italian Government as the Abetone, 
a cool and bracing retreat 4000 feet above the sea. 
The hotels are mainly frequented by Italians; a few 
Americans and English who habitually reside at Flor¬ 
ence find their way thither. But not enough to give 
foreign color to the immigration and spoil the people 
by alms-giving, purse-pride, and extravagance. The 
folk of the valley, therefore, keep much of their sim¬ 
plicity and, though never in squalid poverty, are rarely 
much forehanded as to worldly matters. They merit, 
on the- whole, the sincere attachment the Alexanders 

260 


ABETONE 


261 


have for them and which they reciprocate, adding to 
it a reverence which would be impossible to the genera¬ 
tion coming on. 

“ In this secluded region of the Apennines, where 
her daily walks enable her to look down on one side 
on the wide plains of the valley of the Po, the old 
duchy of Modena, and on the other over the wild val¬ 
ley of the Lima with its rolling sea of chestnut groves, 
extending as far as the eye can reach, down to where 
the mountains overlook Pistoia, one of the most lux¬ 
uriant distances that Italy affords, yet wild and ro¬ 
mantic, with its villages perched upon the almost in¬ 
accessible hillsides and tops. Miss Alexander has 
passed her summer months in cultivation of the most 
primitive nature and the most uncorrupted humanity 
one can find in the hills of Italy, doing what good she 
can to her people, and getting what return she can 
from the flowers and the hills, a life of active devotion 
and practical religion, in which she both worships and 
is worshipped. To her people, she is already canon¬ 
ized, and as their simple ways do not compass the 
power of healing which her broths and herb-teas, her 
nursing and her watching have, they have grown to 
regard her as a miracle-worker, and the effect of her 
prescriptions as due to a divine grace, beyond all rela¬ 
tion to the Materia Medica. They bring their sick to 
her as to the apostles of old, simply believing that she 
may say, ‘ Be healed/ and it shall be done for them. 

“ Miss Alexander was born in Boston and her par¬ 
entage on both sides belongs to families for two hun¬ 
dred years resident in New England. Her father was 
a well-known portrait painter in Boston, and, coming 
to Florence, as all true artists do, or wish to for a time, 
he brought Francesca. As the years have gone by, she 
has grown into Italian life like a slip of free and un¬ 
conventional America on an Old-World stem, keeping 
all the originality and individuality of her birthright, 
scarcely modified by the mellower and riper atmos- 


262 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


phere of the world she lives in. Her birthplace is her 
pride, and her only possible home is Italy. 

“ ‘ What she is/ said Mrs. Alexander to me the other 
day, ‘ she owes to my sainted mother/ But we think 
that perhaps Mrs. Alexander is too filial, and I should 
modify her sentence by a little of the sainted mother’s 
child, for Francesca seems to me to have been moulded 
by her mother. When she first began to draw, her 
father said that her ways were her owm and that she 
must follow them by her own light. He would not 
interfere. That she has done so her work shows. Ex¬ 
ecution, qualities of texture, manner of working and 
of regarding her subject, all are sui generis. Drawing 
with a pen, she begins at one corner of her drawing, be 
it a head, a figure, or a flower, and goes through it, 
finishing as she goes with a most elaborate rendering 
of the minutest details, texture and local color as trans¬ 
lated into white and black, and in her flowers (which 
are to me her most delightful work) happy sympathy 
with the plant and exquisite taste in rendering its 
forms. Her eyesight is abnormally keen and her pa¬ 
tience and delicacy of touch unsurpassed; and in its 
way I do not believe her flower-drawing has ever been 
surpassed if equalled.” 


The following letter is written to Miss Lilly Cleveland: 

“Abetone, August 2nd, 1862. 

Dear Lilly: 

I imagine that when you open this letter 
your first question will be, ‘Where is Abetone?’ 
And as I am quite sure you will never find out 
by looking at any map, I may as well tell you 
before I go any further, that it is one of the blue 
mountains behind Pistoia which you and I have 
looked at so often together from our window at 


ABETONE 


263 


Bellosguardo (I should have said my window, 
but I wrote ours before I thought. It always 
seems half yours), and that we have come here to 
pass a few weeks of the warm weather. Last 
night about sunset, Papa and Mamma were go¬ 
ing down to the post office to see if there were 
any letters or papers from Florence. I said, ‘Do 
bring me back a letter from Lilly,’ and sure 
enough they brought me one, to my great delight, 
as you can well imagine. 

I always wished to see the Pistoiesi mountains, 
where most of the country songs and stornelli 
come from, and where I had heard the finest race 
of people in Tuscany were to be found; so, alto¬ 
gether, I set out on the journey more willingly 
than I ever set out on a journey before. And 
what a beautiful journey it was! First through 
the lovely Yal d’Arno full of quiet farms, where 
the harvest was just ended. And then Pistoia, 
and then the winding road up the mountains 
among endless groves of chestnut trees and little 
ancient looking villages that always appeared in¬ 
accessible; and such splendid views at every 
turn! 

A little after sunset we came to the beginning 
of the fir woods which give the place its name. 
And in half an hour or more, we were at the door 
of the large half-inhabited old house where we 
have since been staying. My dear Lilly, you told 
us in your letter that you were staying at ‘quite 
a countrified place.’ I wonder what you would 


264 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


think of this! An immense extent of woods, of 
beech and fir, a few little patches of cultivation 
which do not deserve to be called farms, a dozen 
very old stone cottages with slated roofs, little 
windows, and great chimneys, straggling for a 
couple of miles along a beautiful road, the 
Government road to Modena; great unfenced 
pastures grown over with bushes, where beauti¬ 
ful wild-looking cattle are guarded by girls in 
gold earrings, who knit at the same time; won¬ 
derful mountain peaks about us, and deep val¬ 
leys with steep wooded sides, and little streams, 
very cold and clear, dashing among the great 
fallen rocks at their bottom. Imagine all this, 
and you will have no very bad idea of Abetone. 

As for the simple and few inhabitants of the 
place, they are of the most primitive description, 
—kind, honest, gentle, and sociable, mostly rela¬ 
tives of each other, and all friends, and exces¬ 
sively proud of their mountain country. It is 
impossible to live among them without growing 
fond of them. To my surprise, they seem some¬ 
what more enlightened and intelligent than the 
country people about Florence. Understand me, 
I don’t mean more modernized, but they seem 
quicker of comprehension, more thoughtful and 
more imaginative. They speak much purer 
Italian, and, above all, their religion seems to be 
more of a reality and less of a form. 

They are poorer than the contadini about 
Florence but at the same time more independent, 


ABETONE 


265 


for all those who do not live on the Government 
land own their fields, such as they are, and are 
thus saved from a great temptation to dishon¬ 
esty. They are fine-looking people, usually with 
some resemblance to each other; they have beau¬ 
tifully formed oval faces, and almost always 
large soft eyes, rather long straight noses, and 
very pretty mouths; curling hair is common 
among them, and, for the most part, they have 
fresh complexions and white teeth. As for their 
manner, they are not so ceremonious as the. 
Florentines, nor so cultivated, but their simplic¬ 
ity and good nature are quite as pleasing hi an¬ 
other way, especially as they almost all have 
sweet voices, and a grand and poetical style of 
language. 

One great pleasure has been the finding of 
Beatrice di Pian degli Ontani, the celebrated 
improvisatrice, one of whose rispetti I send you 
enclosed for your journal. The way we found 
her was odd enough. I believe you have that 
most delightful book ‘Canti Popolari Toscani’ 
and if you have, you will certainly remember in 
the preface the account of this remarkable 
woman, and the beautiful ottava of her composi¬ 
tion, which is introduced and which ends: 

‘E il sole se ne va via Pian piano 
CWio ne debbo partir da Cotigliano.’ 

Now, as we were on our way to this place, a lit- 


266 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


tie old village beautifully situated among steep 
hills covered with chestnuts, like all the country 
about three miles below us (for we are above the 
region of chestnuts here) was pointed out to us 
as Cotigliano, and immediately Beatrice’s ottava 
came into my mind. Papa being interested in 
the ottava, made some inquiries, and told me 
afterwards that Beatrice was still living, and the 
landlord had offered to send for her if we would 
like to see her. But I set my heart on seeing 
Beatrice in her own home, and Papa and 
Mamma, who are always ready to content me in 
anything reasonable or unreasonable, willingly 
undertook to go with me to Pian degli Ontani; 
though the way was very long and rather diffi¬ 
cult, we had to go on foot; up and down a little 
mountain path, which was very beautiful, and 
which I would like to describe to you, if I had 
time which I have not. 

We were pretty near being lost once or twice, 1 
but we were directed, once by a man who was 
picking wild raspberries and once by a charcoal- 
burner cooking a kettle of polenta, until at last, 
when we were on top of the hill, a stranger who 
came along pointed out Pian degli Ontani in the 
distance. So, having rested a few minutes, we 
recommenced our scramble, holding on to the 
trees and bushes and letting ourselves down 
from one great stone to another as well as we 
could. After some time we found ourselves at 
the bottom of a deep and narrow ravine, through 


ABETONE 


267 


which a little river, as clear as crystal, descended 
in a series of quiet pools and bright noisy cas¬ 
cades from one great rock to another. The name 
of this beautiful river is Sestaione, or Sostaione. 
I have heard it pronounced in both ways. After 
this, the way to Pian degli Ontani was not so 
difficult, but why it should be called a plain I 
cannot think. It is a very steep hillside, and the 
alders, from which it takes its name, have to be 
held on to in the more slippery places. 

Beatrice’s house was a common, stone-built 
farmhouse standing among a few cherry-trees 
in a green field, which sloped away so rapidly to 
the Sestaione that one could not see the little 
river, though one could hear its sound distinctly. 
Beyond the river, the mountain range rose 
abruptly, a magnificent wall of woods and rocks 
until, as the river took a turn, a wonderful view 
was opened down the valley, with mountain be¬ 
hind mountain, apparently without end. I re¬ 
member Beatrice’s line, 

‘La montagna e stata a noi maestra / 

In the little patch of corn and potatoes near 
the house stood an infirm-looking old man. He 
took little notice of us until we spoke to him and 
then, from his almost unintelligible answer, we 
discovered that he was paralytic. He appeared, 
however, to have the use of his mind, and after 
several trials, he finally succeeded in making us 


268 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


understand that Beatrice was making hay. That 
was all we could make out. To all our questions 
as to where she was, he would only answer, ( A 
far il fieno/ 

So we set off down the steep hill and pretty 
soon a man whom we met undertook to make 
Beatrice come to us; so he whistled very loud 
and shrill, until he had attracted her attention, 
and then called her. And Beatrice, throwing 
down her rake, came running up the hill towards 
us. I went a few steps to meet her, wondering 
what she would be like. I remembered that in 
the book I had read she was described as ‘not 
pretty/ and I was afraid she would be a very 
frightful old woman. So it was quite a relief 
when she came near and I saw what she really 
was. I don’t know how any one could say she 
was not handsome. 

Of course I can’t say what she may have been 
in her youth, but now at sixty years of age, 
Beatrice is certainly a very pretty woman. She 
says that she is sixty, but she looks at least ten 
years younger. Her eyes are her great beauty,— 
large, dark, and brilliant, full of fire. I did not 
wonder that Tommaseo called them inspired . 
For the rest of her face, she has a pretty, 
straight little nose, rather strongly marked eye¬ 
brows, and a mouth so sweet in expression that 
I really cannot say whether it is pretty or not. 
One never notices the shape of it. She is very 
brown,—that I cannot deny. And her skin has 



A CONTADINA AT THE WELL 

From an early pencil drawing by Francesca Alexander 
























































































































ABETONE 


269 


become polished through long exposure to 
weather, but she has plenty of color in her cheeks 
still. I suppose this sunburn may have pre¬ 
vented an Italian from discovering her beauty. 

She is perhaps the last woman in Toscana who 
still wears the old-fashioned red bodice. She 
says it belongs to the old times, and so she wears 
it, much regretting that others have laid it aside, 
for she says nothing else is so pretty, in which 
I quite agree with her. Her head is always cov¬ 
ered with a handkerchief, from under which her 
beautiful gray hair falls in natural curls about 
her face. She was delighted to see us and imme¬ 
diately fell in love with Mamma, and entered 
into an animated conversation with her. 

But by this time the old paralytic man had 
tottered after us, and Beatrice presented him to 
us as her husband. He stood leaning feebly on 
his stick and seemed to take a faint sort of pleas¬ 
ure in watching us. Beatrice’s conversation was 
very beautiful. She had the unconscious sim¬ 
plicity of a child, and took no pains to conceal 
her delight at the compliment we had paid her 
in coming to look for her, and told us with great 
glee how the Cavalier Giliani or some such name 
had come to hear her sing, and how he was a 
‘gran’ Signore / 

But if there was no affectation of modesty 
about her, there was also no attempt to show off, 
or to keep up her character by talking poetically. 
It is true that a great'deal of her language is 


270 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


poetry without rhyme, but she herself was not 
aware of it. Her most peculiar habit was that of 
hardly ever stating any fact without saying after 
it, ' Grazie a dio / After telling us how she had 
lost three children and how much she had suf¬ 
fered in consequence, she added, ‘Grazie a dio! 
He sends us nothing without a reason, don’t you 
think so?’ and she looked at me. Her husband 
often interrupted her. When he did so, she lis¬ 
tened attentively, and then repeated or rather 
translated his words to us. She seemed very fond 
of her ‘povero uomo / One thing was certain: 
Beatrice had never been taught manners of any 
sort. Natural refinement and good feeling more 
than supplied all deficiencies. But there was no 
attempt to be proper, no false shame, no hesita¬ 
tion about receiving us on terms of perfect equal¬ 
ity, and being at ease herself, of course she made 
every one else so. We did not leave her until I 
had fixed a day for her to come and sit for her 
picture. And as the picture took two days, I had 
plenty of time to become acquainted with her, 
and she on her part became confidential, and told 
me all her history. 

As it is not a long one, I will write a little ac¬ 
count of it to you. Her mother died when she 
was two or three years old and her father, who 
had several children, never married again. He 
was a mason, and Beatrice, when a girl, used to 
be employed in carrying stones for him. In the 
winter they always went to the Maremma and in 


ABETONE 


271 


the spring returned to the mountains. And so 
they did until she married her povero uomo. 
After this she tended sheep, but her husband, 
who was fond of her, never made her work very 
hard, and in course of time she had eight chil¬ 
dren, all good and handsome and intelligent. 
But she had troubles. Indeed, to use her own 
words, one trouble never waited for the other. 

First, the Sestaioni rose and carried away 
their little old home, which was afterwards re¬ 
placed by the one among the cherry trees. Then 
she lost her baby and in consequence went down 
to Florence as a nurse, and was almost smoth¬ 
ered by the air, and glad enough to come back 
again. She lost two more children, especially 
mourning her oldest son Peppino, who was as 
good as an angel, and a poet like herself. She 
can never speak of Peppino without tears. And 
then another son was taken in the conscription. 
And that, she says, was the greatest sorrow of all 
her life. ‘My heart/ she says, ‘ is between two 
stones for that child! ’ 

This son has been at the taking of Messina and 
is now fighting the brigands. And last of all, 
about six months ago, her poor old husband was 
struck with paralysis. 

With regard to this last misfortune, she can¬ 
not feel much, she says, like complaining. She 
is so thankful that the old man’s life was spared. 
She shall always feel happy, she says, as long as 
his life is spared, even in his present condition. 


272 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

And for the rest, they own the hayfield and the 
home and three cows besides. And they have no 
debts. And she has no wish even to be better 
off. She hardly thinks on the whole that she 
should like to be a great lady. 

This history she told me herself, and I will 
only add to it that she is much respected and ad¬ 
mired, and that she still composes beautiful ot- 
tave. I have set down several from her dicta¬ 
tion, and she asked me to send a pretty one to 
the Signorina di Perugia, and I chose the little 
rispetto, which I enclose. That you may under¬ 
stand it, I ought to tell you that the country 
people call all mountains Alpe, and that the 
mountains above the region of trees are covered 
with little white flowers shaped like stars and 
having a perfume like honey. The last two lines 
she added for you, and I made her sign it with 
a cross, for she cannot write or read either. I 
told her once that it was strange that she could 
compose such beautiful poetry and yet not be 
able to write it down. To which she replied, 
6 'Writing has nothing to do with poetry. One 
may write without being a poet. Poetry is the 
gift of God. 7 Her mind was full of all beautiful 
ideas. She knows enough poetry to fill many 
volumes, and can quote an appropriate verse for 
any subject that is mentioned. But I must now 
leave Beatrice. 

Your next letter will find me, I hope, at home, 
looking down on Bella Firenze. But I shall al- 


ABETONE 


273 


ways hope to come back some time again to this 
beautiful country, of which my letter will give 
you but a very imperfect idea. And now with 
love to all, believe me 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny Alexander. ’ ’ 

In the following story of Abetone, Francesca de¬ 
scribes the little committee for the wounded during the 
War of 1866: 

“During the war of 1866 for the liberation of 
Venice, I think that almost every town and city 
in Italy had its ‘Committee for the Wounded/ 
In Florence all the great ladies were making lint 
and bandages, and receiving contributions in 
money, linen and medicine. And at FAbetone, 
high up among the Apennines, where I was 
spending that summer, as I have many of the 
happiest summers in my life, there were two or 
three poor, good little girls, who wanted to do 
their part, too, for their dear Italy, and for those 
who suffered, whether friends or enemies. And 
they did not see why they should not have a com¬ 
mittee, as well as the great ladies in Florence; of 
whom so much was told in the one newspaper 
which the postman brought from Pistoia, late in 
the afternoon, and which was borrowed and read, 
during the next twenty-four hours, by every one 
in the little settlement who could read, and 
listened to with anxious interest by those who 
could not. 


274 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

So the poor girls appointed an hour every day 
at which to meet and carry on their charitable 
work. And gradually mothers and aunts and 
friends began to be interested, as what they had 
looked upon as play proved to be really serious 
work, and to produce considerable results. And 
one or another would come in often and give us 
an hour’s work and tell a story or sing a song to 
make the work go faster. I say us, because I had 
the honour to be a regular member of the com¬ 
mittee. Indeed, I was treasurer, and had charge 
of the basket of linen, and received the contribu¬ 
tions. 

The girls were indefatigable: five or six hours 
they would work in a day without stopping even 
a minute to rest. If it sometimes occurred to me 
to ask if they were not tired, I was met always 
by the same unvarying and unanswerable ques¬ 
tion: ‘And if those poor soldiers, who are fight¬ 
ing for our liberty, should begin to say, “We are 
tired,” what would become of us?’ 

Certainly the fatigue would have been extreme 
if we had not provided ourselves with some 
amusement. To pass the time more pleasantly, 
each of the young workwomen was expected to 
bring every day a story for the entertainment of 
her companions, which she told while at her 
work. And in the intervals between the stories 
we used to sing, sometimes grand old hymns, left 
by the Capuchin missionaries who from time to 
time cross these mountains and preach in the 


ABETONE 


275 


various villages, sometimes plaintive little love 
songs, grown up (one can hardly say composed) 
among the mountain people themselves; full of 
passionate feeling and strange conceits, and 
sung to sad minor tunes, that seemed as old as 
the hills, and as wild; sometimes again intermi¬ 
nable ballads in ottava rima, or more modern and 
lively songs about Italy and Garibaldi, picked up 
from returned soldiers. 

Most of the songs I wrote down, and many of 
the stories I can still remember. And I have 
thought that some of them might be interesting, - 
if printed in English, for their very novelty, and 
as specimens of a literature that is rapidly dying 
away. 

Perhaps I ought, however, to tell a little where 
l’Abetone is, and what it is like. It is a little 
group of houses—one cannot call it a village— 
on the high road between Tuscany and Modena, 
and stands a few yards from what used to be the 
boundary line dividing those two states. Pietro 
Leopoldo, in whose reign the road was made, 
built the plain little church, which serves for all 
the country for miles around, and the priest’s 
house next to it, and the custom-house and post- 
office, now degenerated into a tavern, and kept 
by Nando, as the neighbors irreverently call Sig. 
Ferdinando Ferrari, the principal man, perhaps, 
in the place. It is said that Pietro Leopoldo, 
wishing that these remote mountain districts 



276 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


should be inhabited, gave grants of land to in¬ 
duce families to settle there. 

I should imagine that he sent very few fami¬ 
lies to Abetone, to judge by the very small va¬ 
riety in family names. They were nearly all 
either Zani or Ferrari, and the two families had 
intermarried until almost every one in the place 
was related to every one else. A beautiful place 
it was, on the very ridge of the Apennines, four 
thousand feet above the level of the sea, with its 
pure air, and its numberless fountains of clear 
cold water, its pastures so full of flowers, and its 
immense old woods of fir and beech. All about it 
rose the mountain summits, on which patches of 
snow would linger almost all summer, and the 
grand white clouds would come down and rest 
upon them, looking close at hand, as they never 
do on the plain. 

The inhabitants were mostly shepherds and 
charcoal-burners, kind, friendly people, it used 
to seem to me, who tended each other’s babies, 
fed each other’s children, and drove home each 
other’s stray cattle, quite as a matter of 
course. 

They were fine-looking people, with noble and 
gracious manners, and a singularly poetical way 
of expressing themselves in conversation. Once 
a year, on the feast of S. Leopoldo, they all met 
together at the church and had a ‘procession’ to 
carry the relics of the saint. The only trouble 
about this procession was that, as everybody took 


ABETONE 


277 


part in it, there was no one to see it, and it might 
have merited a large number of spectators. 

First came all the women; Madam Betta Fer¬ 
rari at the head, carrying the banner, because 
she was the oldest woman in the place. She was 
eighty-five when I last saw her, and yet, if I 
should call her an old woman, I should be giving 
quite a false idea of her. I think that she was 
the most beautiful woman in that part of the 
country: tall, and erect, with a fair fresh colour, 
and a singularly bright and happy smile; with 
brilliant dark eyes, and hair that had been 
golden, so old people told me, but which was now 
snow white, though still retaining the bright 
gloss of youth, and hanging in natural and 
abundant curls over her forehead and about her 
noble face. But what gave a peculiar brilliancy 
to her appearance, was the fact that while her 
hair was so white, her long, heavy eyelashes were 
still of the deepest black. Truly she was a mag¬ 
nificent woman, the mother of nine children, and 
grandmother of half the settlement. She went 
first, as I said, dressed in black, with white em¬ 
broidered veil and apron, carrying the banner 
surmounted by the cross, with a grown-up grand¬ 
daughter on each side. Then came all the 
women, two at a time, all in their Sunday dresses 
of bright colours; even the little girls of seven 
or eight years came out to do honour to San 
Leopoldo. Next walked the priest, in yellow bro¬ 
cade, carrying the relics in their case of faded 


278 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


gilding, under a canopy, also of yellow brocade, 
borne by four of the principal men of the parish, 
in white dresses, and two or three other priests, 
invited for the occasion from the nearest towns, 
walked on each side, with old silver incense- 
burners. And then came the men and boys, bare¬ 
headed and reverential in velvet jackets, with 
waistcoats and handkerchiefs of every shade of 
brilliant colour. 

And the sound of the psalms, chanted in those 
clear mountain voices, floated far away into the 
still air, and the perfume of the incense mingled 
with that of the fir woods, as the little procession 
moved slowly down the road under the trees, now 
in sunshine and now in shadow, to return again 
in a few minutes and replace the relics for an¬ 
other year’s rest under the altar. 

This was their festa: for the rest, the working- 
day life of these people was sober enough. The 
men, until they became quite old, went every win¬ 
ter to work in the Maremma, and some of them 
were always tempted by the hope of gain to stay 
too late into the spring; and would come home 
with malaria fever to die, or to hang about for 
years, yellow and shivering. When at home, 
they would be much occupied in burning char¬ 
coal, the principal merchandise of those moun¬ 
tains. 

On Monday morning a man would leave his 
home with a bag of meal and an iron kettle to 
make polenta. He would take up his lodging on 


ABETONE 


279 


some remote mountainside, where the beech 
woods had been lately cut down, and for the next 
week his friends and neighbors would have no 
sign of his existence beyond the sight of a faint 
distant column of smoke, rising from his char¬ 
coal bed. If, as was most likely, there were other 
charcoal-burners near him, they would entertain 
each other, in the long nights of watching, with 
singing, and not unfrequently one of them would 
be a poet, and improvise verses by the hour to¬ 
gether. 

How I wish, in ending my account of the Com¬ 
mittee for the Wounded, I could introduce the 
little Abetone girls to you one by one, and tell 
you all their songs and stories! ’ ’ . . . 

Francesca had begun writing a collection of these 
stories, but it was left unfinished. 

To Miss Lilly Cleveland: 

“Bellosguardo, October, 1862. 

Dear Lilly: 

How glad I am to date this letter Bellos¬ 
guardo ! There is certainly no place like home. 
I do not know whom I was most sorry to leave 
at Abetone, but I think the one who was most 
sorry to have us come away was Beatrice. Papa 
said, ‘Beatrice, you must sing us an ottava to 
take leave of us. ’ 

It seemed to me quite solemn—the solitary 
place, the grand mountain ridges all about us, as 


280 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

Beatrice, bidding us stand, so that she could see 
all at once, stood quite still with her eyes on the 
ground for a moment. And then, with that pe¬ 
culiar lighting up of the face which always came 
with her ottava, she sang such a beautiful adio. 
She made it up as she went along, of course, but 
it was so full of feeling and so simply and so 
naturally expressed, that I cannot tell you the 
effect it had on all of us. Then after many tears 
and good wishes, she left us, wiping her eyes as 
she walked up the steep, narrow path, and in a 
few minutes was out of sight. I was sorry, after 
all, when the time came to leave Abetone, where 
we had passed such a happy summer. 

But as our vettura passed down the beautiful 
winding road, and as we came first to the chest¬ 
nut trees, then to the grape-vines, after a long 
time to a fig tree and finally, best of all, to a few 
poor frost-bitten olives, I found my spirits rising 
as the road descended, and I felt that I was ap¬ 
proaching home. It was evening when we 
reached our own home, which looked remarkably 
large and handsome after the low, half-furnished 
rooms in the old custom-house. 

And then came two or three most happy weeks, 
as you can well imagine,—visiting friends, going 
over old walks, receiving congratulations and 
baskets of fruit from the contadini (who called 
us poverino and gave us more figs than we could 
eat, because they said we had been so long with¬ 
out any), and being generally considered as per- 


ABETONE 


281 


sons who had passed through a considerable 
amount of danger and difficulty. 

One of the first friends whom I visited was 
that very stately and quiet one, the marble arch¬ 
bishop in San Francesco, whom I always find 
more companionable than most living people. It 
was a happy day for me when I found myself 
once again sitting by his side and looking at his 
kind, thoughtful, saintly old face always turned 
a little towards me, as it lies on the rich pillow. 
Of course I read over the Latin epitaph, which I 
always do, though I cannot make much out of it 
except that his name was Menozzo de Federighi, 
that he was Bishop of Fiesole, that he died in 
1450, and that he was the most upright of men, 
which last part no one can doubt who looks at 
him. I am indebted to your uncle, Mr. Charles 
Perkins, for telling me that this most splendid 
monument is the work of Lucca della Robbia, 
one of his very few works in marble. 

We have had a great subject of interest here, 
and indeed all through the country, in the mar¬ 
riage of our little Princess Pia to the King of 
Portugal. Everybody loved this little princess, 
who was just as good as her sister Clotilde, and 
a great deal prettier, to judge from her photo¬ 
graph, which Papa brought me home one day. 
And what splendid presents she had! Our city 
of Florence gave her a cup made of a single and 
very beautiful piece of white agate, with a golden 
dragon with diamond eyes twisted about the 


282 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

stem, and our Gonfaloniere, the Marchese Barto¬ 
lomei, went on to Torino to present it. I never 
heard the particulars but I hope he wore his 
official dress, in which he looks so grand and 
handsome. 

Napoli sent a complete set of pink coral, in 
which you know the Neapolitans work so beau¬ 
tifully. Grenova sent a bust of the bride’s an¬ 
cestor, Carlo Alberto, which, by the way, I 
should not think she would have wanted, to judge 
from those portraits of the old gentleman which 
I have seen. The Pope, who is her godfather, 
sent her, they say, a splendid reliquary and a 
rosary of pearls and diamonds. 

The Roman Liberali sent a set of ornaments 
in Roman gold, comprising everything that 
would have been given to a bride in the ancient 
times of the Empire. These were bought and 
sent off secretly, for though the Pope sent a pres¬ 
ent to the young lady himself, he considered it 
treasonable for any one else to do so. 

Torino presented an album containing views 
of all the places among which the Princess Pia 
had passed her childhood. The Emperor Na¬ 
poleon sent a crown of diamonds, and the Em¬ 
press a dress of Valenciennes lace. The poor 
Venetian emigrants had not much to give, but 
they gave two volumes of poetry, as a token of 
good will. Palermo sent a statue, LTnnocenza, 
which I saw at the Esposizione last year, and 
which was a very pretty thing. The King gave 


ABETONE 


283 


her a fortune in diamonds. I think she was his 
favorite child. She was the youngest and the 
prettiest, and of a most amiable character. But 
Bologna outdid all the others, and left them a 
great way behind. It sent a beautiful Madonna 
and Child, an original by Francia! That was 
the only present of them all which made me feel 
for a moment as if I should like to be in the 
Princess ’ place. 

I wish you would tell me what people on that 
side of the water think of this horrible American 
war. How long do they think it will last ? The 
poor straw-bonnet makers here are starving be¬ 
cause the trade with America is stopped. And 
for the first time in my life, I believe, I see in¬ 
dustrious people in want of bread. There has 
been some talk of a war here in the spring, for 
the liberation of Venezia, but I believe it has 
been given up, for which I am thankful. 

Everybody feels low-spirited here about Rome, 
which we are not likely to have for the present. 
The other day in one of the small rooms at the 
Pitti, I saw a fresco, apparently of the last cen¬ 
tury, representing Rome with the line under¬ 
neath, ‘Nulla puo durar se manca Roma 

I was startled, for it sounded like a prophecy. 
The other day as I was passing Casa Gruidi, 
where poor Mrs. Browning lived, I saw that 
some of her Florentine admirers had put up a 
marble slab on the wall with an inscription 
which I thought very beautiful. I will try to 


284 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


copy it, as I think you would like to paste it in 
your album where you have her autograph, and 
her beautiful poem on Yillafranca. Lizzie Boot 
sends her love to all of you. Do write to me soon 
and tell me if there is any chance of your return¬ 
ing to our Bella Firenze. How happy such a 
prospect would make me! 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny Alexander.” 

In a letter to Miss Lilly Cleveland, Francesca writes 
the story of how she sent a petition to the King. An 
old woman named Beppa, a stranger to Francesca, 
came to her one day in great distress, saying, “ They 
are going to take my son away in the conscription.’’ 

The year before, he had married a poor orphan girl 
of seventeen, and he was his wife’s and mother’s onlv 
support. When Francesca went to see them, she found 
that the poor woman’s son had been taken away and 
that his wife, whose baby was born only a few days 
before, was lying dangerously ill. Unless help came 
to them, her baby would have to be sent to the Found¬ 
ling Hospital. Francesca writes: 

“A distinguished lawyer undertook to send a 
petition to the King, but the King never an¬ 
swered it—probably never received it. The Gon- 
faloniere of Florence sent a petition to the 
Minister of War, also without success. The 
young wife gradually pledged all her ornaments, 
then her bed-quilt and her Sunday dress of wool. 
Then a thought occurred to me. Why should not 
I write to the King and tell him all? It was 
simply the last chance, and I would not let the 



A CONTADINA AND HER CHILD 

From a pen drawing by Francesca Alexander 


IMS ; 






























































ABETONE 


285 


poor girl starve, or send her baby to the Found¬ 
ling Hospital. I took Mamma into my confidence 
and she proposed that I should enclose a likeness 
of Carolina and her baby.” 

Francesca consulted the wife of the Prefect, the 
Marchesa Torricessa, who helped her write her letter 
to the King. A kind priest named Martelli sent word 
that he also would write a petition, and advised Fran¬ 
cesca to take advantage of the King’s being in Flor¬ 
ence, for a month, and send her petition while he was 
there. Francesca continues: 

“The King was recalled suddenly to Torino. 
We heard that he was going just in time to have 
our petition and the picture placed in his hands; 
which was done by the Marchese della Stufa, to 
whom I shall always feel most thankful. Before 
the King went away, he ordered our petition sent 
to the Minister of War; who never did anything 
about it; but our good kind King sent poor little 
Carolina sixty francs, which I had to go with 
Papa to receive from the King’s secretary. He 
was such a handsome, stately old gentleman, and 
he received us in a room that looked out on a 
little garden, of which I wanted to make a pic¬ 
ture, and hope I shall some time from memory. 

He made me sit in an armchair of gold and 
velvet while he wrote something for me to sign, 
and folded up the gold pieces in white paper. He 
showed me my picture, which he said the King 
had chosen to keep for himself, and had ordered 
sent on to Torino. The next day I had to go to 


286 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

Monticelli and put Carolina into possession of 
more gold than she probably ever saw before. 
The poor little thing was quite bewildered with 
such a fortune, so she was able to redeem all her 
things. By this time, her story had become 
known to many. She received much sympathy 
and assistance and thinks that she will be able 
to support herself and the baby. . . 

“I wrote you of the King’s being called to 
Torino, but have not written you about his ar¬ 
rival in Florence. Such a reception he had as 
no King ever had before. I told you that with 
the conscription and some other misfortunes 
which the Piedmontese have brought on this poor 
country, the Florentines have all turned Codini. 
When the King left the railway station behind 
Santa Maria Novella, there was not one evviva. 
No one, it is said, took his hat off except the King 
himself. He passed through the streets in a dead 
silence until he reached Piazza Pitti, where a 
silent crowd waited to receive him. A terrible 
contrast it must have seemed to that first en¬ 
trance into Florence, which you remember as 
well as I do. But whatever he may have felt, he 
showed no displeasure, but entered the Palace 
with that unmoved military air of his, just as 
usual. But when he was once out of sight, the 
better feelings of the crowd began to get the 
upper hand. A few voices raised an ‘Evviva il 
reV Then the others joined, and the cry was 


ABETONE 


287 


repeated several times. The King came out on 
the balcony, bowed to the people, and stood lean¬ 
ing on the railing and looking down at them. At 
that moment it seemed as if all the old affection 
for Vittorio Emanuele returned into the hearts 
of the Florentines. All hats were taken off. 
There was a tremendous shouting and from 
that time the King and the people have been 
friends. . . .” 

To Miss Lilly Cleveland: 

“Abetone, 

July 3rd, 1863. 

Dear Lilly: 

I have not yet heard from you since I sent 
you that hurried note from Florence. I expect 
to commence my work as soon as I finish my 
letter. I have already engaged three sitters. 
One of the three is Beatrice. She came to see us 
the first morning after our arrival. She is a 
good deal changed, having had much trouble 
since we parted, but was delighted to see us, and 
kept me all the morning writing ottave from her 
dictation. She looked as handsome as ever, after 
an hour spent in composition, and I think I shall 
try to make her sing a little while I paint her, 
just that I may catch the peculiar light and fire 
of her eyes. Some of the ottave she gave me are 
very beautiful, especially three which related to 
her son, who is a soldier engaged in fighting the 
brigands away in the south. 


288 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


Ajiother of my sitters is a pretty little shep¬ 
herdess of the Modenese country (of which, you 
know, we live on the borders), whom I think I 
shall paint sitting under a beech tree, with a few 
sheep about her. She is a perfect little beauty, 
with such eyes as I know you would delight in. 
Only no one can ever tell what color they are. 
They change so in different lights. But I know 
they are like two drops of water for clearness, 
and shaded by perhaps the longest black eye¬ 
lashes which I ever saw. 

And this morning I found another almost as 
pretty, carrying a great load of wood on her 
back down the side of the mountain, and I 
stopped and engaged her. She was a Modenese, 
too. Indeed, I never saw such a nest of beauty 
as I have fallen into just the other side of the 
confine. The only trouble is that they all look 
very much alike. 

I find that I enjoy Abetone much more this 
year than last, partly, I suppose, because I am 
used to it and partly because—I do not know 
why—I enjoy everything more this year than I 
ever did before. And then everybody was so glad 
to see us this year. Papa and I have a walk 
every morning. In the afternoon, Mamma goes 
with us, and we sit under the fir trees beside one 
of the little streams and she reads to us. This is 
the pleasantest part of the day. I am now ex¬ 
pecting every day a line from you to tell me of 
your arrival. I only hope you T1 manage to stay 




ABETONE 


289 

till Christmas. Of course I will take you to see 
the conscript’s wife and baby, and then we must 
go together and pay our respects to the Arch¬ 
bishop at San Francesco, and you shall see Cec- 
china; only you will never see her blue eyes. She 
had an illness in the spring, and when she recov¬ 
ered, her eyes had become black. Was it not 
strange! 

Annina is to bring her baby to show you. He 
is a splendid great fellow, only six months old. 
He eats everything that the family eat,—bean- 
soup, black bread, fruit of all sorts, and maca¬ 
roni. I told Annina that she would kill him if 
she gave him such things, to which she replied 
by asking me to look at him. . . .” 


“Bellosguardo, 
April 29, 1864. 

Dear Lilly: 

We were all much pleased to make the 
acquaintance of your friend Mrs. Grinnell. She 
is a very lovely woman and of singular beauty. 
She bought the picture of Clementina and paid 
me a good deal more for it than I asked. Lilly 
Fay has just taken another and Eleanor Shat- 
tuck has given me an order for a Unid. So you 
see my hands are more than full. I am engaged 
just now on a picture of Petrarch’s Laura, hav¬ 
ing made the acquaintance of a young seamstress 
whose resemblance to the various portraits of 
Laura is something extraordinary. 


290 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


You can hardly imagine the amount of pleas¬ 
ure which one finds in such a work. First, the 
study of Petrarch for a day or two, to decide on 
my subject; then the composing of the picture in 
my head, which was very entertaining, though it 
rather interfered with my night’s sleep. Then 
the next thing, of course, was to go to Santa 
Maria Novella, down into the green cloister with 
its old frescoes, its green grass, its sunshine, and 
its perfect quiet, and the square patch of sky 
always looking so intensely blue above it; and 
from thence into the damp, solitary Spanish 
chapel, where I spent a happy half-hour in the 
tranquil society of Laura herself, with her fair 
innocent face looking full into mine, while I 
studied the dressing of her golden hair and the 
fashion of that green dress embroidered with 
violets, which, Petrarch says, he could never see 
a bank in the spring without thinking of. 

I chose for my subject that beautiful scene 
where Laura sat under an apple tree with the 
blossoms falling all about her. How often I 
wished you could be with me when I sat under 
that tree in Gabriello Boni’s field, the air all 
sweet with the blossoms and the face of my 
Laura looking as delicate as one of the flowers, 
as she leaned it against the rough old stem, and 
in that position went off quietly to sleep. 

But one thing is certain: if I write any more 
about Laura my eyes will be in no condition to 
paint her tomorrow. Do send me word what day 


ABETONE 


291 


you will be here, that I may lose no time in seeing 
you. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny Alexander. ” 

“Bellosguardo, 
January 3rd, 1866. 

Dear Lilly: 

I certainly cannot write my first letter of 
the year to any one but yourself. You say I did 
not tell you anything in my last letter about 
Beatrice. My poor Beatrice has met with a 
great affliction, in the loss of her husband. They 
had lived together for forty years. When I first 
met her this year, she was quite overcome. She 
had quite given up singing, and when I tried to 
induce her to sing again, she said, ‘I used to sing 
what my heart told me, but now my heart tells 
me to be still. ? 

Her heart told her, however, to sing again 
before we came away. 

Since writing this, I have seen Mrs. Shaw, who 
brought me fifty francs from you, and her 
daughter gave me 200 francs for the poor, which 
I imagine I owe to you also, who have, no doubt, 
spoken a kind word for me. We have made 
great friends, and talk about you all the time. 

You ask me to tell you something about the 
Dante celebration here last spring, but I should 
have to devote a letter entirely to that to give 
you any idea of it. And to tell the truth, I did 


292 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


not see much of it. The city was certainly more 
beautiful than I ever saw it, and the streets were 
hung with garlands and banners, the old red lily 
rather taking the lead and the white cross not 
very conspicuous. The court and loggia of the 
Uffizi were fitted up for a ballroom, with mirrors, 
flowers, evergreens, and tapestries, and a foun¬ 
tain of wine in the center. The city for three 
days resolved itself into sesti, as in Dante ? s time, 
and each sesti hung out its appropriate banner. 

You know how Dante’s remains were discov¬ 
ered just about that time, and how we all had 
just a little hope that Ravenna might be gen¬ 
erous and give him back to us. But that was too 
much to expect, and after all, I think Ravenna 
was right. With the bones were discovered a 
few bay-leaves which had once formed part of a 
garland, and it was suggested that one should be 
given to every Italian city, but that also was 
refused. 

I knew one of the commissioners who was sent 
on from Florence to verify the remains and 
heard from him a most interesting account of all 
that took place. At my request he brought me a 
flower, which had been touched to the bones, 
which I keep as a most precious relic. I daresay 
that you know who this gentleman was—Padre 
Giuliani, the commentator of Dante. This Padre 
Giuliani has never been a great favourite of 
mine, but for the time being, I had quite a sym¬ 
pathy for him as he told me about his visit to 


ABETONE 


293 


the remains. He was permitted, at his request, 
and as a particular favour, to kiss the forehead 
of the great Florentine. That, he said in a sol¬ 
emn and tremulous voice, was the great moment 
of his life, a moment never to be forgotten. I 
never before or afterwards saw Padre Giuliani 
thrown off his balance, but that visit to Ravenna 
was too much for him. 

i 

As for the statue, which was inaugurated in 
Piazza Santa Croce, I have always thought it a 
disgrace to Florence. I hardly suppose that 
Dante was a very handsome man, but if he were 
such a savage as they have made him, the Flor¬ 
entines had some reason in keeping him out of 
the city. His only expression is one of intense 
disgust, which, however, is partly accounted for 
by the near neighborhood of the new front of 
Santa Croce. 

The procession was very grand. Every city 
and town in Italy was represented with its ap¬ 
propriate banner. But I think I had better not 
write any more about the festa or I shall never 
leave room to tell you about Christmas. . . 

From our aunt to her father, Colonel Samuel Swett: 

Villa Brichieri, Bellosguardo, 
October 5, 1866. 

My dear Father: 

I was in hopes to have my house in full 
order before I wrote again, but we are still in a 


294 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

very unsettled state. Last week was one of un¬ 
usual interest to us, for Garibaldi has been here 
in a villa almost close by us. Last Monday morn¬ 
ing, we were told he was coming almost imme¬ 
diately. Every house had hung out the Italian 
flag, and people were standing all along the road. 
In a few minutes we heard a great shouting, and 
quite a little army, mostly of Garibaldini, came 
along in a state of indescribable enthusiasm, 
some of them carrying well-worn flags and look¬ 
ing tired and heated, for the sun was intense, and 
they were hurrying. In a few minutes a carriage 
appeared with an immense Italian flag with the 
Lion of St. Mark in the centre, and in this was 
seated Garibaldi. He looked in fair health and 
fine spirits, and much handsomer than any like¬ 
ness of him; more elegant-looking than any 
crowned head I have yet seen; a most kindly, 
thoughtful face with a gracious dignity of man¬ 
ner that was very attractive, and that is one 
cause of his wonderful influence. 

It seems that on his arrival at the railroad sta¬ 
tion the National Guard did not present arms, 
which gave great offense, and they were hissed 
by the people, who immediately took the horses 
from the carriage, with the intention of drawing 
it themselves. But he forbade it. When he 
passed the villa, the road up and down was just 
one mass of human beings and the shouts of 
' Viva GaribaldiV were incessant. And every one 
was watching him intently. I never saw so much 


ABETONE 


295 


feeling shown for any one. He looked gratified, 
certainly, but quite self-possessed and tranquil, 
tie wore a red cap embroidered in gold and a 
striped black and white thin cloak made burnous 
fashion with the ‘ camicia rossa’ all of the finest 
materials and very fresh and nice. 

There was a long row of carriages filled with 
officers and ladies, among them Garibaldi’s beau¬ 
tiful daughter with a lovely child about two 
years old, dressed, like the rest, in the red shirt. 
As he came along, Mr. Alexander waved Mr. 
Brewer’s great American flag from the first win¬ 
dow, and he kissed his hand to it. Fanny and I 
were at the next one. I waved my handkerchief 
and said,' Viva Garibaldi!’ with the rest, and he 
bowed and smiled, and waved his hand to us. 
His face reminded me of the expression of a 
noble Newfoundland dog who looks up in one’s 
face to make friends. Just so sagacious and just 
so benevolent and friendly. He stayed up here 
two days, and there was a constant stream of 
people coming and going. 

There was a crowd all about the villa, and 
some of them seemed planted there. I saw four 
tall ladies standing about an equal distance 
apart, immovable, watching the house and look¬ 
ing just like a row of trees. In the evening there 
was another crowd of Garibaldini with torches 
and a great band of music. As you may imagine, 
the shouting was tremendous. When they burst 
out with ‘Garibaldi’s Hymn’ he made a speech to 


296 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


the crowd. We were anxious to give some re¬ 
freshment to his tired-looking followers, but we 
had no time to provide anything, and, on count¬ 
ing all the flasks of wine we could muster, found 
it was impossible. So I had to satisfy myself by 
handing down a glass of wine or a bunch of 
grapes to those who looked ill or had been 
wounded. I took the opportunity of giving away 
quite a pile of the dear Lawrence’s books. The 
Sermon on the Mount and hymn-books were the 
favorites, and seemed even more acceptable than 
the fruit or wine. 

Fanny had warned me not to give indiscrim¬ 
inately, as those of high rank had gone volun¬ 
teers and wore their dress. Their manners were 
most courteous. They would share the glass of 
wine with their companions till they had scarcely 
any themselves, and go away as softly as pos¬ 
sible when I told them there was a child ill in 
the house. A finer-looking or better behaved 
body of soldiers there could not be. Two of 
Fanny’s friends wished to see the General. One 
of them was Giannina Milli, 1 who had written 
some poetry about his wife, and of whose writ¬ 
ings he is said to be an admirer, and to have read 
them when he was confined with his wound. 
And as I had told her I should like to be pre¬ 
sented, she went down to Florence and put mat¬ 
ters in train. She went with one of the ladies 
and sent into Garibaldi a list of those who wished 

1 Giannina Milli, noted Italian poetess and improvisatrice. 


ABETONE 


297 


to see him. Giannina’s name headed the list. 
Mine was the last. I was described, much to 
Fan’s annoyance, as an American lady of dis¬ 
tinction, after which the officer who befriended 
them, and who appeared impressed by this de¬ 
scription, occupied himself by trying to obtain 
sight of her, which she prevented by keeping be¬ 
hind her friend, with the idea that in her india 
rubbers and her splashed condition she would 
not reflect honor on so distinguished a family. 

I had forgotten all about the matter when she 
came in, breathless, for she ran up the hill in 
advance of the carriage, and told me eleven 
ladies were waiting for me in Florence; that I 
was one of a deputation, and that the General 
had begged us to come as soon as possible. Mr. 
A. was fortunately at home, to accompany me to 
the door of the palace and receive me when I 
came out. I just thought of my book of Ameri¬ 
can photographs and caught it up as I went to 
the carriage. I could not help wishing I knew 
what I was a deputation of or from. It might be 
of condolence on the peace, which he is supposed 
to disapprove; or his wound, which is unhealed; 
or of congratulation on the liberation of Venice. 
And a suitable demeanor was desirable. 

In the meantime, I took from my book the 
photographs of Lincoln and his little son sent 
us by Mr. Pratt, one of Sherman on horseback, 
very fine, a present from Aunt Sarah, and one of 
Grant, that Mr. Wales gave me. It quite went to 


298 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


my heart to part with them but I knew I could 
replace them, first or last, and such a good friend 
of America deserved them. I am afraid I de¬ 
layed the others, for we were late, and another 
party had taken our places. So we had to wait 
a while and I went into the store of our baker, 
near by, who not only gave me the only chair but 
with much politeness spread a sheet of brown 
paper in it, by way of a cushion. I took this 
opportunity to inquire of Giannina the nature 
of our deputation, but found she was as ignorant 
as myself. The place was crowded with people 
coming and going; carriages were standing about 
the door, and the low wall opposite was occupied 
by a close line of men and women, many of whom 
had brought their knitting or straw braid with 
them, and all were watching the windows in¬ 
tently. I found my companions were distin¬ 
guished really mostly for talent or rank, but it 
was rather a triumph for my republican feelings 
when I inquired the name of one uncommonly 
interesting woman to find she was a schoolmis¬ 
tress, and the very sweetest of women. 

The palace was full of people in and out of 
uniform. There were three rooms open and we 
waited in the middle one, and the chair assigned 
to me was before Garibaldi’s writing table, 
which was covered with papers. You may im¬ 
agine how much I would have liked to steal 
one. 

In a few minutes, his visitors passed out from 


ABETONE 


299 

the next room and he came with them and 
remained standing near the door while the ladies 
gathered around him. Here his surprising mem¬ 
ory did him and them both good service, for he 
was able to say something appropriate to each 
one. He told Giannina her name was known not 
only to him and throughout Europe, but all over 
the world. 

As I knew every word and movement was 
precious to these Italian ladies and that I was 
admitted by courtesy, I decided not to come for¬ 
ward and be presented, but to remain on the out¬ 
skirts of the deputation, only too glad of the 
opportunity to watch his looks and words, which 
I had a fine chance of doing. He was taller than 
I expected—about a head taller than any of the 
ladies, one of whom was considerably above com¬ 
mon height,—vigorous-looking but not stout. 
His hair was brown, partly gray, abundant and 
waving, cut across just at the neck; his eyes 
dark-brown, clear, pleasant, and steady; his fea¬ 
tures regular and face oval, with a handsome 
beard. The general effect was that of a naturally 
happy face somewhat worn by the cares and la¬ 
bors of his eventful career. He stood leaning his 
left hand, covered by his cloak, on his cane, his 
wound not being healed. I was most impressed 
by his voice and manner of speaking. His tone 
was most *simpatico’ and full of feeling, not 
loud, but clear, distinct, and deliberate; and he 
speaks in the most dignified and gentle manner 


300 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

possible. There are few crowned heads so natu¬ 
rally courtly. 

After a while Giannina insisted on my coming 
forward and being presented. I was introduced 
as an American. He shook hands with me very 
kindly and said he remembered seeing me at the 
window of the villa. He spoke of public affairs 
and said, ‘I never despair of my country/ 

They all became very much interested, and 
many of the ladies were in tears. After a while, 
Griannina asked me to give him the photographs 
and so I came forward again. Lincoln I sent to 
his little grandson, who bears his name. The 
others I gave to him.' He examined them and 
seemed much pleased and shook hands again and 
spoke delightfully of his feeling for the Ameri¬ 
can cause, which he said he regarded as the cause 
of liberty. We did not stay long, and as they 
took leave, one by one, I waited till the last and 
took the opportunity to thank him for his good¬ 
ness to my country and also to myself. He gave 
me his hand again and said that he was very 
grateful. Like all who approach him, I felt the 
charm of his presence, for as I turned away I 
felt very sorry to think I should probably never 
in this world see that noble and kindly face 
again. I looked back as I passed through the 
door; he was looking after us with the same gra¬ 
cious and kindly expression. 

It is understood that some members of the 
Government are very jealous of the great honors 


ABETONE 


301 


paid him, and he has, as far as possible, avoided 
all display, declining even to go to the theatre. It 
is said he considers the work of his life done and 
that he is taking leave of his friends, intending 
to remain in retirement at Caprera. I had no 
idea of making such a long story, so I will only 
add love to you and yon all. 

Yours affectionately, 

Lucia.’ ’ 

Our aunt to our mother: 

“Abetone, 

July 12, 1867. 

My dear Mary: 

I am much obliged to you for your letter, 
which I was very glad to receive. I tried to 
answer it before I came away, but could not. 

I have promised to make a visit in September 
to a lady who has titles enough to figure in a 
sensation novel. Her husband is an Armenian 
prince and an Italian baron, and she is a coun¬ 
tess in her own right. They are enormously rich, 
and keep reminding me of the stories of the ogre 
and of the Arabian Nights. For there were 
seven little princesses, each with a fortune of 
her own, and three hundred thousand dollars’ 
worth of jewels. The father of the present 
prince was a great favorite of the Shah of Per¬ 
sia ; his widow lives with her son, old and blind, 
with great presses full of treasure that she keeps 
locked up. Our friend showed me a pair of ear¬ 
rings she gave her that cost eight thousand dol- 


302 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


lars, and one black diamond worth much more, 
and a ruby named < diavoletto 9 that appears to 
throw out streams of fire in the sunshine. 

They came to Florence this spring and are 
great friends of Fan’s other self, the Countess 
Baroni, who had praised her up so that they each 
and all fell in love with her. And the old lady 
wanted to give her a pair of diamond earrings, 
but Fan told her that she had never worn any, 
and so she had one want the less. 

They found we were going to Venice in May, 
and asked us to come, instead, and spend July 
with them in the Palace Contarini, which be¬ 
longs to them, as then the place would be full 
of company for the baths. But I was afraid of 
the heat, and they then said they should leave 
their villa at Padua, where they were staying, 
and go to Venice to receive us. But I said I 
would go in September instead, and it will all be 
so new and strange to me. I expect to enjoy 
it extremely. . . .” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA AND THE RETURN TO ITALY 

On the 11th of June, 1868, the Alexanders sailed 
from Liverpool for their long-deferred visit to America. 
The following letter to our mother was written by our 
aunt a short time before they left England: 

‘ ‘ London, 

May 26, 1868. 

Dear Mary: 

As our passage to America is engaged, 
and actually paid for, I can at last venture to say 
that, D. V., we shall have the pleasure of seeing 
you all in something less than another month. 
I had not dared before to say anything about 
coming because I felt that it was so uncertain. 
We shall not be able to sail from Liverpool be¬ 
fore the 9th of June, as we found we had been 
deceived when we were told that there was a 
steamer went to Boston direct, on the 2nd. How¬ 
ever, it gives us a little more time here, which 
is perhaps just as well; and there is so much to 
be seen, that, work as hard as we can, from morn¬ 
ing till night, we shall leave a great deal undone, 
when we go away, that we should have been very 
glad to have accomplished. 

Mr. Alexander thought himself hardly equal 

303 


304 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


to the undertaking, but he finds it very easy and 
enjoys it more than any of us. We have been 
very fortunate in meeting kind friends who have 
advised and helped us. We came from Florence 
to Paris, across Mt. Cenis, without stopping. It 
was a hard pull but did us no lasting harm. At 
Paris we found a courier who had often been to 
our house with our friends. He took possession 
of us and saw us fairly started for London, 
where we arrived at midnight and found, waiting 
for us at the station, friends who took us to 
lodgings where we live just as if we were keep¬ 
ing house. 

You may imagine Pm impatient to see Boston 
again, now the time is so near. Mr. Alexander 
and Fan join with me in sending much love to 
you all. 

Yours affectionately, 

Lucia.” 

Aunt Lucia loved Boston, the old Common, the 
beautiful suburbs of the city, where she had hoped to 
make her home. Above all she loved her Boston 
friends and was happy to be among them again. The 
Alexanders’ first visit was to Exeter. Our father was 
delighted to have with him once more his beloved 
sister, from whom he had been separated for fifteen 
years. 

The children of the family were much excited at the 
thought of meeting their unknown uncle, aunt, and 
cousin. Our father met them at the station, but al¬ 
though it was a long distance from our house, they 
refused to drive, and preferred to walk through the 
town. They looked foreign indeed, as our aunt and 


305 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 

Francesca wore no hats but black lace scarves over 
their heads, having very much the effect of Spanish 
mantillas. Both had a great charm for children, 
and soon we became fascinated with them and greatly 
enjoyed having them with us. We delighted in Aunt 
Lucia’s entertaining stories, many of which we remem¬ 
ber to this day. For Uncle Alexander we had a great 
admiration, and he was always most kind to us all, 
although our brother Will, “ Willy,” as he always 
called him, was his especial favorite. Of him he be¬ 
came very fond. 

The Alexanders spent the rest of the summer in 
Swampscott and in the autumn took a suite of rooms 
in the Winthrop House in Boston. Our father and 
mother decided to close the house in Exeter and take 
a suite there also, in order to be near them. 

That winter in Boston was, I think, the happiest 
winter of our aunt’s life. It seemed as if the Alex¬ 
anders’ old friends felt that they could not do enough 
to show how glad they were to welcome them back 
to America. Invitations were showered upon them; 
there was a succession of dinner parties; their rooms 
were filled with beautiful flowers. Whenever Aunt 
Lucia could find a quiet evening, she spent it with 
us, talking over family affairs and old Exeter days. 
One of Aunt Lucia’s first visitors, and one who was 
always most welcome, was Whittier, the poet. For her 
he had a most affectionate regard, and although they 
never met again after the following year, when she 
returned to Italy, they always corresponded with each 
other, and their friendship remained unchanged as 
long as Mr. Whittier lived. I remember one after¬ 
noon in Florence, several years later, Aunt Lucia’s 
reading me one of his letters in answer to a letter of 
hers asking if he would write for her his favorite poem 
of all the poems he had ever written, and if he would 
send it with a lock of his hair. He wrote off “ Eternal 
Goodness ” and enclosed it in one of his letters, saying, 


306 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


“ I send the verses as thee requested; I also send the 
lock of hair, but thee must remember that thee is re¬ 
sponsible for the folly.” 

Although there was much that Francesca enjoyed 
during her visit to America, she had always a fear that 
she might not be able to return to her beloved Italy. 
Some of her happiest hours in Boston were spent work¬ 
ing in her little studio, for the poor Italians of both 
Boston and Italy. She painted a number of por¬ 
traits and drew many pictures in pen and ink. But 
at this time, before she became famous, she asked 
only ten dollars for an outline drawing, and twenty 
for a drawing with much shading. My aunt and cousin 
became much interested in the North End Mission, of 
which I think Professor Tourjee was in charge. We 
used to go with them on Sunday afternoons when they 
went to teach in the Sunday School, where there were 
many poor little Italians and Portuguese. 

A very pleasant event of that winter was the mar¬ 
riage of our Cousin Wilmina Swett- to General Edward 
Hallowell. Aunt Lucia was very fond of her niece 
Wilmina and was much interested in the wedding. To 
the children of our family, it was a very exciting event. 
We made up a party with the Alexanders, and all went 
out to Belmont. It was a very pretty and simple 
home wedding. The bride looked lovely and the bride¬ 
groom very handsome. General Edward Hallowell was 
a remarkably handsome man,—tad with very fair hair. 
A11 the guests signed their names in a book, according 
to the Quaker custom. Among the guests at the wed¬ 
ding, I can recall the very charming young sisters of 
General Hallowed, who came from Philadelphia. 

In June, the Alexanders went to Newport. After a 
few weeks there, they went to Swampscott for the 
remainder of the summer, and sailed for Italy early 
in September. The first letter after their arrival in 
Paris was written to our father: 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 


307 


“ Paris, 

September 13th, 1869. 

My dear Brother, 

Since the day I last saw you, nothing very 
unexpected has happened to us, or that really 
seems worth writing. But I know you will like 
to be assured. "We are all well and comfortable, 
and I am anxious to hear from you and how you 
are, as I did not feel quite satisfied about your 
state of health when we parted. I tried to con¬ 
sole myself by thinking of Dr. Cabot’s promise 
to cure you entirely. But do be sure, whenever 
you write, to mention exactly and minutely how 
you are. I was doubly sorry to come away just 
now, for I could at least have made you frequent 
visits. And besides, I miss you terribly. I 
should not care to live over again the day I left 
Boston. I remember just as we turned out of 
Bowdoin Square it came into my mind that it 
was possible to give it all up; forfeit the passage 
money and stay in America, and the same temp¬ 
tation haunted me so much as I went on board 
the steamer that it was quite a relief when the 
pilot left us and the chance was out of my reach. 

If anybody but Fan had been concerned, I 
should not have hesitated a minute. I can give 
you no idea how unhappy I felt the morning I 
came away. Cousin Horace Gray stood waiting 
for us in the station in New York, and left us 
finally in our stateroom. He is one of the most 
excellent and delightful of men, and his kindness 


308 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


and generosity are wonderful. I consider it one 
of the good fortunes of my life that I have such 
a good friend. His own spirits were so inspir¬ 
ing, and he found so much to interest us that he 
insisted on our seeing, that I was astonished to 
suffer so little. 

Our staterooms were very large, really rather 
chambers than staterooms. But the portholes 
had to be closed almost all the way, and you may 
imagine how I gasped for air. It was a case of 
real distress. There were many pleasant people 
on board with whom Mr. A. made friends, and 
who sent us quite a variety of things to our 
staterooms, which Fan and I never left. Among 
them was an Italian, Mr. Valerio (who married 
a niece of Miss Sedgwick’s) who has been Con¬ 
sul at Genoa, and knows many of our friends. 

The first sign we had of approaching land was 
a little brown bird that was blown on board quite 
exhausted, six hundred miles from land. I was, 
of course, glad to come within sight of the light¬ 
house at Brest, but the land looked to me like my 
prison, perhaps for life. . . .” 

Francesca to Miss Lucy Woodbridge: 

“ Florence, 

October 9th, 1869. 

Bear Lucy, 

Your kind letter, which I received about 
a fortnight ago, gave me the greatest pleasure, 
and was the first letter I had received from 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 309 

America since my departure. Papa and Mamma 
were much shocked to hear of the death of their 
old friend, Dr. Townsend. I just remember him. 
As a child I was fond of him because when he 
used to come to the house to see Papa, he always 
took much notice of me. 

Now I must tell you a little about ourselves, 
who have been here now about seven weeks. Our 
journey was very pleasant, and at Paris I found 
letters awaiting me from all my Italian friends, 
full of the most extravagant joy at our return. 
We stayed there about four weeks and were all 
very well and happy, but the best of all was the 
journey from Paris here. The first night we 
slept in the cars, at least Papa and Mamma did. 
I was too much excited to sleep much, and when 
the early morning light first showed me the coun¬ 
try, I was in sight of the mountains, the dear 
mountains that I had not seen for so long. It 
was with a strange feeling of relief and refresh¬ 
ment that I watched their beautiful faint outline 
low on the horizon against the slowly brighten¬ 
ing sky. 

That day we crossed the Moncenisio, and the 
evening found us in my beloved Italy. We 
passed the night at Torino, which appeared to 
me of the most exceeding beauty, with many 
grand old palaces and churches, and down almost 
every street a wonderful prospect ending in the 
mountains. The next day was all happiness. I 
seemed to forget that I had ever been out of 


310 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


Italy. Everything along the road looked so 
familiar and homelike. It was after dark when 
we entered Florence, and before we had fairly 
stopped at the station, I saw the faces of some 
of my friends looking out for us, and in two or 
three minutes they were all about us, and I was 
embraced, as it seemed to me, by all at once, and 
my hands were filled with flowers without my 
being able to tell who had placed them there. 

Nobody had changed much. I saw that at the 
first sight, and some aged people had walked a 
long distance, and some little children had been 
kept late from their beds, that no beloved face 
might be wanting at my first arrival. Then they 
all walked with us to the locanda, where our kind 
friend Griannina had engaged some quite beau¬ 
tiful rooms for us; and there they left us for the 
night. 

And so, dear Lucy, I came back to my old 
home. After that we had some trouble. For a 
week or two Mamma was not well, and though 
she would never admit that anything was really 
the matter with her, I had no peace until I saw 
her quite restored. But it is all past now, and 
we are all very happy. 

We have a beautiful apartment on the Piazza 
Santa Maria Novella, close to the old church, 
and can see into the country from our window; 
can even see Bellosguardo, where we used to live, 
and the old villa, where we passed so many, to 
me at least, happy, happy years! I think there 


311 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 

is little doubt that we shall return to America 
in the spring and settle there definitely. Many 
reasons seem to make it necessary. And I hope 
that next time I shall be a little more reasonable 
and not worry you any more with my low spirits 
and homesickness. With much love from us all, 
I am now as ever, dear Lucy, 

Your very affectionate friend, 

Fanny.’ ’ 

Our aunt to her cousin, Mr. Samuel W. Swett: 

i 6 Florence, 

October 11, 1869. 

My dear Cousin, 

We reached here about eight o’clock, and 
as we stepped from the cars found ourselves in 
a crowd of friends. We have magnificent rooms 
in an old palace built by Luca Pitti—one door 
shuts off our quarters; we have an ante-room 
where we dine, an immense drawing-room twen¬ 
ty-one feet high, a superb room—two large sleep¬ 
ing-rooms and two small ones for trunks—our 
windows are southern, and on one of the finest 
of the squares. The last of the family, Mad- 
dalena Pitti, a little deformed old lady, lives in 
a small portion of the palace of her ancestors, 
and lets the rest for a hotel. The day after our 
arrival, we had company from before breakfast 
till late at night, and presents of rare and val¬ 
uable things; splendid bouquets kept coming all 
day. The next morning my pulse was a medical 



312 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


curiosity; I have hardly sat up since. I do not 
think that I am ill, only tired, and I realize that 
I have passed the gates of my prison perhaps 
never to escape from it entirely. The heat and 
glare are still extreme and I keep thinking of the 
watered streets and elm trees in Boston. . . . 

Yours affectionately, 

L. Gr. A.” 

In the preceding letter, when our aunt writes “ I 
realize that I have passed the gates of my prison,” 
her foreboding that she might never again return to 
America proved to be true, for this visit, from which 
she had just returned, was the only one my aunt in all 
her long life ever paid to her native country. The 
apartment which she describes, although a part of the 
Hotel Bonciani, had a private entrance facing on the 
Piazza Santa Maria Novella. The entrance to the 
hotel was on another street. All friends of the Alex¬ 
anders who ever visited them in the old palace must 
remember Raffaello, who always came with his great 
key to open the iron gates. Good kind Raffaello! He 
always was so much pleased to see us. For many years 
he had been with the Alexanders, and during our 
uncle’s last illness was his devoted nurse. It was here 
that Francesca first had Edwige, her faithful maid and 
companion for forty years. 

In the great salon were many valuable paintings. 
At the time when the Alexanders first went to Italy, 
during the war with Austria, many of the Italian 
churches were very poor and sold some of their pic¬ 
tures. In this way the Alexanders bought some paint¬ 
ings which afterwards became very valuable. They 
had two Giottos, and a Ghirlandajo. With the many 
paintings were little pictures and gifts which had only 
a sentimental value. 

In the dining-room against the walls were great 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 


313 


teakwood cabinets filled with rare old china, much of 
which our aunt had inherited, some of it having 
been brought to America in her grandfather’s ships, 
and there were many beautiful pieces which had been 
collected by Uncle Alexander. On top of the cabinets 
were great Lowestoft punch bowls. We had never 
known how many, but Mr. Frank Lee, who was di¬ 
rector of the Essex Institute in Salem, told us, when 
he came to see us in Washington, shortly after he had 
been to see our aunt in Florence, that he had counted 
them and that there were forty of them. 

Francesca’s little studio was at the top of the house, 
also her terrace garden, where she delighted in caring 
for her flowers. Aunt Lucia and Francesca had lived 
in this apartment for twenty years when one day the 
proprietor of the Hotel Bonciani came to our aunt and 
asked, “ Is the Signora satisfied? ” Our aunt looked at 
him in surprise, and said, “ Yes, certainly, but why do 
you ask me? ” He answered, “ When the Signora came 
here twenty years ago she said she would let me know 
if they were satisfied, and she has never told me.” 

Francesca to Miss Lilly Cleveland: 

“Florence, 

November 20, 1869. 

Dearest Lilly: 

When I look back on the day that I last 
saw you, how very far away it seems and how 
much has happened since. Before we came, we 
wrote to our friend Giannina Milli, the improvi- 
satrice, and she took a very pleasant apartment 
for us in a very old palace turned into a hotel, 
in Piazza Santa Maria Novella, close to the 
church. "We could hardly be more pleasantly 


314 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

situated. From our windows we can see across 
the Piazza and the buildings beyond to Bellos- 
guardo, where we used to live, and see our old 
house, and most of the other houses about it, 
which are associated with my old happy life. 
Which all seems very natural and homelike. 
With regard to my friends in Florence, I find 
few changes, excepting that they all make much 
more of us than ever. They have all resolved 
that we are never to go away again. Marina, my 
dear Venetian friend, the Countess Baroni, who 
has, since the departure of the Austrians, come 
into a large fortune, has offered us a wing of the 
family palace at Bassano, containing twenty- 
three rooms, and our choice of whether to form 
part of her family or to keep up a separate estab¬ 
lishment for the whole of our lives. Another 
friend has placed at our disposition an apart¬ 
ment in her palace in Florence. Angelina says 
she has no anxiety at all about our movements, 
for she has prayed so much for us to stay that 
she knows we shall find it impossible ever to go. 
And Marianna contents herself with forbidding 
us and every one else ever to mention the subject 
before her. I am delighted with your Uncle 
Charles’ idea of a museum hi Boston, where 
something of the sort is very much needed. And 
the Americans are so liberal, that if such an in¬ 
stitution were once started, I am certain it would 
receive no end of contributions, especially if he 
were at the head of it, as I hope he may be. For 



Hall of Palazzo Rezzonico at Bassano in the Veneto 

De Quarenghi, architect of the imperial palace of St. Petersburg, was the 

architect of Palazzo Rezzonico 

















































THE VISIT TO AMERICA 


315 


no one else, it seems to me, could be so suit¬ 
able. . . 

Our aunt to her cousin, Mr. Samuel W. Swett: 

‘ ‘ Florence, 

December 22, 1869. 

My dear Cousin: 

I have to record always the same soft, 
dark, rainy weather, and in consequence the 
river rose in the hills and came down here in a 
torrent. It is a grand sight. It goes tearing 
along in great waves, and it seems exactly like 
some wild creature taking great leaps. Last 
week was the festa of Santa Lucia, and it is the 
fashion here to keep the day of the saint whose 
name one bears. In the morning, immense bou¬ 
quets were sent in, and one smaller one of very 
choice flowers from a poor girl who gives lessons. 
I thought this present was about the best of all. 

Then an old gentleman, more than seventy 
years old, sent me a sonnet by himself and a very 
little old china cnp bearing the stamp of the date 
of the manufacture before America was discov¬ 
ered. Then came an autographed letter of Ros¬ 
sini’s, one of the Emperor Leopold, dated 1667, 
and a set of curious old engravings. In the eve¬ 
ning, all our intimate friends assembled, all hav¬ 
ing put on their best dresses, and there was a 
splendid piece of music prepared for the occa¬ 
sion. Marina Baroni came in last, bringing a 


316 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


lovely drawing of Santa Lucia by the first Flor¬ 
entine artist, with a sonnet by the first professor, 
and an exquisite frame of ivy leaves by the best 
wood-carver in Florence. I think she was con¬ 
sidered to have outdone herself. 

It was all very Italian and very pretty, and I 
was thinking all the evening how I could make 
up my mind to part, once and for all, with such 
friends. They said they wished to show me I 
was not alone, even here. 

Yours affectionately, 

L. Gr. A.” 

“Florence, 

January 11, 1870. 

My dear Cousin: 

Both of the pieces by Whittier were 
charming. Fan liked The Indian Beacon best, 
but I fancied the description of his little school- 
day love. He was really attached to a very beau¬ 
tiful woman of Dover when he was young, but 
his father died poor. The care of the family 
came on him. He could not propose at that time. 
She married a Southerner. She is now a widow 
with ten children, and they are very good 
friends. 

Bessie Winthrop and her husband are here. 
She looks well and happy, and our friends are 
all disposed to be charmed with her. She has 
lived so long in Paris that she is more European 
than American. Perhaps her health might not 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 


317 


be so good at home. Fan has just drawn a beau¬ 
tiful picture representing one of the legends of 
Saint Catherine of Sienna. She used to spend 
so much time in praying as to interfere with the 
housework and irritate her father, who, coming 
in one day, while she was on her knees, saw a 
white dove hovering in a glory over her head. 
So he never found any more fault. It is con¬ 
sidered the most beautiful thing she has done. 
She is wonderfully well and seems to have re¬ 
turned to the robust health of her early child¬ 
hood. 

Mr. Alexander keeps pretty well in spite of 
the foggy weather. He is longing for a home, 
but does not care to live in Boston. His tastes 
are all for flowers and animals and a rather large 
house. I only hope there is one waiting for us 
somewhere.” 

“ Florence, 

February 2nd, 1870. 

My dear Cousin: 

Bessie Winthrop and her husband have 
gone to Rome. She made herself very agreeable 
to the Florentines and they were delighted with 
her. I had a little party for her, which was quite 
an event to me. I invited about fifty, all Ital¬ 
ians, and almost every one came. Our grand 
room looked very pretty, lighted with wax can¬ 
dles. My entertainment was simple but abun¬ 
dant. It was only lemonade and sweet wine on 
a side table and ice-cream and cake on a round 


318 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


one, and all helped themselves and each other; 
and you may be sure they liked it, for my very 
abundant supply was just enough, which was 
very gratifying. 

The ladies here dress rather simply, but some 
of the jewelry was wonderful. It was bought in 
old times, when it was almost the only safe and 
portable investment before banks were known, 
and has been entailed and handed down. It 
makes modern adornment quite of no account, as 
such cannot be purchased. I was much gratified 
to see how the grandest people present laid them¬ 
selves out to entertain those who were poor or 
who might not feel quite at home. I invited 
them at seven, and by eight they all came. 

Bessie speaks both French and Italian, and 
she really appeared lovely, quite an honor to 
Boston. When they went away at half-past 
eleven, she said she wished it were all to begin 
over again. I hardly think she or any one else 
ever saw anything just like it, for there was a 
wonderful amount of talent employed for her 
entertainment. First a dear friend sang two 
songs, equal to Alboni. Then a pretty little girl 
played astonishingly well. Then Griannina Milli 
recited two of her own poems in a manner to 
which no description of mine can do any justice. 
And then a sister of Prince Corsini’s sang, 
which she never does in company, so that this 
was evidently considered a great compliment. 

The great event of the evening, however, was 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 


319 


a poem addressed to Pan. About twenty sheets 
of printed paper were distributed, one of them 
to me. It was a description of her, highly com¬ 
plimentary, no name, however, being given. 
Giannina Milli was requested to read it and 
asked my permission to do so. I hardly knew 
what to say. It seemed making her very con¬ 
spicuous. But the poet was not very young and 
would be much disappointed, and my maternal 
vanity was gratified. So I told her I could trust 
entirely to her discretion. You might have heard 
a pin fall while she was reading; and then there 
was great applause. Fan took it all with her 
usual self-command. She is used to being made 
much of here. Then she sang a song, the burden 
of which was, ‘Non ti scordar di me’ which was 
found very affecting, in view of our possible de¬ 
parture. You may suppose all this makes me 
feel more at home here than I once thought 
possible. . . 


“ Florence, 

March 2nd, 1870. 

My dear Cousin: 

Fan came home yesterday morning with 
her hands full of flowers, and asked me to guess 
who had sent me a present. It turned out to be 
no less than the Princess Margherita. Count 
Negri has just been to Naples with the King, in 
his capacity of aide-de-camp, and, thinking it 
would please me, he told her we had been of some 


320 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


service to his regiment in the war, and asked her 
to send me her autograph and photograph. So 
she sent me a charming one, full length, album 
size, and wrote under it the date, and ‘Marghe- 
rita di Savoia.’ It came in a large envelope with 
the royal arms, looking very grand indeed. This 
is the season rents are paid three months in ad¬ 
vance, and now I see how poorly labor is paid 
here. Every one whom I employ and most of 
those I know come to me in distress. They are 
living on insufficient food and will be turned out 
of doors, without some help. I know them to be 
industrious and extremely saving, and yet it 
seems almost cruel kindness to pay them in 
advance. If you were here I wonder whether 
you would not change your advice and tell me to 
give more. . . 

“ Florence, 

April 27th, 1870. 

My dear Cousin: 

Enrichetta Nerli comes every other day 
after dinner and takes us into the country. And 
when we are up on the hills we walk sometimes 
for miles. I only wish you could see how lovely 
the country is. The wheat is well along, fresh 
and green, and the apple and peach trees are in 
blossom. A little snow remains on the mountain 
tops, and the river and the city in the valley just 
at sundown make a picture more beautiful than 
ever was painted. I cannot tell you how kind 
this friend continues. She really seems to have 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 


321 


transferred to us something of the affection she 
gave to her parents, and you can imagine how 
grateful we feel for this, when we are so far 
from all those we belong to. If you ever see her, 
you will be directly in love with her, just as we 
all are. 

I always think of a Sunday afternoon in Bos¬ 
ton as the most charming of recollections—the 
splendid trees in the streets, the sound of the 
familiar tunes in the churches, and most of all 
the entire absence of poverty; the poorest black, 
as well as white, elegantly dressed, such scenes 
are better than all the galleries and cathedrals. 
Here the laboring people look so sickly, even 
those who would not be called in want, that it 
takes away from the charm that is natural to the 
place. I often think of the streets in Boston 
with the splendid elm trees and the streets 
watered night and morning. The country here 
is beautiful but it is old. There are no masses 
of verdure and almost no birds. I should be glad 
to see one of the robins which are so plenty 
around your home. I brought a robin’s egg with 
me that Charlotte’s boys brought me and it is 
considered a great and a beautiful curiosity. 
Once every week Pan goes into the country and 
spends the day with the Marchesa Ridolfi. They 
send in for her. Last evening Enrichetta took 
us all there and it seemed just like my old idea 
of Italy. 

There is a lovely garden on a terrace on which 


322 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


the drawing-room windows open. It is an im¬ 
mense room, the ceiling making a high arch. We 
all walked in the garden and they gave us a great 
basket of tea-roses and other flowers, and after 
sundown we sat down at a table under a great 
paulonia in blossom, with some simple refresh¬ 
ments. 

The Convent of the Certosa was near by, and 
the old bells were as sweet as possible. There 
was a villa or a church on every hill, and they 
grew higher and higher till they ended in the 
lovely outline of the mountains in the horizon. 
The ladies were as stately as old pictures, and 
the three little boys were playing about with a 
tame ring-dove. It seemed more like a novel 
than reality.” 

From our aunt to our mother: 

4 ‘ Florence, 

November 2nd, 1870. 

Dear Mary: 

Your letter was received only yesterday. 
Fan will be very glad to have May’s promised 
letter. I have been trying to write to you for a 
long time, but when I went up to San Marcello 
I had a list of fifty letters that had to be written, 
and the air was so sultry and heavy I was good 
for nothing. I worked through most of them, 
and we came back the first of September expect¬ 
ing to go immediately to spend a month with 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 


323 


Marina Baroni at Bassano. But just as we were 
deciding which train to take, her uncle, Count 
Negri, came in to claim a promise we had made, 
that in case of need we would go to work for 
his regiment, which was to go to Rome. Of 
course our way was clear. 

At first the work came rather hard, but we 
soon fell into the old track and enjoyed it. Our 
friends were most helpful. We used to have a 
large table, and every evening it was surrounded 
by workers, who took home a great stock to fin¬ 
ish. One of them used to sit up until two in the 
morning to work. After the box went, we went 
to Marina’s, though we could stay only a fort¬ 
night. We were astonished by the magnificence 
of her residence, which is like a royal palace, and 
surrounded by lovely grounds. We had four 
immense rooms, connected by a gallery that 
crossed a great hall. We enjoyed every minute. 
We made some long excursions, for there were 
many wonders of nature and art within twenty 
miles, and then dined late and had company in 
the evening. 

A good many Venetians have villas and live 
about there in the summer, and Marina is the 
great lady of the neighborhood. She made us 
entirely at home, so it was delightful. There had 
never been any Americans in the place before, 
and so you may be sure I did my best for the 
credit of my country, for if we had been Japa- 
nese we could hardly have excited more curiosity. 


324 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


We had a variety of presents, some of them very 
interesting, from people we hardly knew. 

From there we went to Padova to stay with 
our Armenian friends, whose likenesses, I dare 
say, you remember, and they took us to see won¬ 
derful treasures of art. One day, they had the 
Armenian archbishop from Constantinople. I 
sat next him at dinner, and he has invited us to 
come and see him at Rome, where he now lives. 

Our host was educated at an English college 
at Madras, and one morning astonished us at 
the breakfast table by reciting Dr. Watts’ ‘How 
glorious is our Heavenly King!’ all through. I 
remember so well your husband’s saying it Sun¬ 
day afternoons at Cambridge at a very early age 
indeed. They live in the extreme of luxury. 

Marina had offered us part of her palace for 
life, and Baron Aganoor told Mr. A. that he is 
now fitting up a part of his, and he would have 
it finished according to our taste and give it to 
us for life, if we would live there. I told his 
wife it was not possible. 

He took us to see the jewels he had given to 
the relics of Saint Antonio. They were won¬ 
ders, all rare. They cost forty thousand dollars. 
He used to give ten thousand dollars to the Pope 
as Peter’s pence, but he does not now. He is 
very religious and spends almost all of his time 
studying the Bible in various languages. He 
and Mr. A. talked all the time on this subject, 
and were inseparable. She and the girls went 


325 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 

with us to Venice, and arranged everything for 
us there. I hope for good news from you soon. 

Yours affectionately, 

Lucia.” 

Our aunt to her cousin, Mrs. Samuel W. Swett: 

“Florence, January 15 th, 1871 . 
My dear cousin Mary: 

One of the principal events of the present 
moment is the presence of General Sheridan 
here, ‘The conqueror of Cedar Chreeck/ as the 
papers call him. The King has given him a re¬ 
ception and also a dinner to which eighty mili¬ 
tary celebrities have been invited. The King 
had an animated conversation with him about 
hunting in America, and was so much charmed 
with his account of it as to express much regret 
that America was so far off that he could not go 
there to enjoy it. Dinners and balls were given 
for the General every day, and he is considered 
very attractive and genial in his manners. He 
has, of course, had opportunities of seeing both 
the French and Prussians fight, and he says 
that neither of them are to be compared to the 
Americans, whose charges are made with an im¬ 
petuosity quite unequalled. There is an English 
lady here who has two nephews in the Prussian 
army before Paris. They write her they are 
sleeping in canvas tents, the thermometer being 
below zero. 

Mr. A. is remarkably well, and so is Fan. She 


326 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

is strong and active, and out in all weathers, rain 
and shine. She is the means of saving many 
lives and of making many more comfortable. I 
want to go up to Bellosguardo to see the Stephen 
Perkinses and the Nortons, who are living there, 
so I will only add our united love to yourself 
and Cousin Ann. 

Yours affectionately, 

L. G. A.” 

Francesca to Miss Lilly Cleveland: 

“Florence, June 6th, 1871. 

Dearest Lilly: 

I received your affectionate and interest¬ 
ing letter last August in the mountains of San 
Marcello, where we passed the summer, and I 
meant to have written to you long ago. I work 
now a great deal in pen and ink, which is rather 
trying for the eyes, and I can therefore write 
but little. 

San Marcello is a little lower than Abetone, on 
the same road, and is a very ancient, miniature 
walled town. It stands on a slope of a grand 
chestnut-covered mountain, with a ravine far be¬ 
low it full of broken rocks, among which the lit¬ 
tle torrent Limestre, cold and clear, rushes and 
tumbles with a great deal of noise and very little 
water. On the other side rises another mountain 
ridge, steep and upright, like a wall, with the 
chestnut trees clinging to it, one above another, 
to its very summit. 


327 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 

\ 

I think I was never in a more beautiful place, 
and I have a very pleasant recollection of the in¬ 
habitants, who were poor and ignorant people 
but for the most part pious and honest, of great 
beauty, and with a talent for music and poetry 
which made them very interesting. 

Crime was pretty much unknown in the neigh¬ 
borhood, and such was the primitive state of 
society that I used to go freely into every home 
in the place without the least danger of annoy¬ 
ance from any one, tending babies, prescribing 
for invalids, and gossipping with old women, as 
if I had lived there all my life. 

And now, dear Lilly, I must tell you a very 
strange experience in my life. I have been hon¬ 
oured at San Marcello as a Catholic saint. I can 
tell you the fact without vanity, as it did not 
arrive from any virtue which these good people 
saw in me, but from a curious combination of 
circumstances. An elderly woman in the place 
had been ill for some months, and her illness had 
been mismanaged. Mamma advised me to try a 
simple remedy for her, which, assisted by the 
imagination, of which she had more than the 
usual share, effected a cure in so short a time 
that I myself was astonished at it. But then, to 
be sure, I had advised her to desist from green 
plums and some other delicacies of the same de¬ 
scription in which she had been in the habit of 
indulging rather too freely. And no doubt this 
had a good deal to do with her recovery. But 


328 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


my patient immediately jumped to the hasty 
conclusion that I had wrought a miracle, which 
of course was only to be accounted for on the 
ground of my being a saint. It was in vain that 
I disclaimed the honor and tried to explain. She 
knew what a miracle was! The saints in the leg - 
gendario cured sick people by the touch of their 
hands, and I had touched a little flour and it had 
cured her. It was all the same thing! Of course 
she was not such a fool as to suppose that the 
virtue was in the flour. No, it was in those 
hands. Manine Preziose! And with that she 
caught up one of them and kissed it, and pressed 
it to her bosom, and went off into a flood of tears. 
And I stood there with a humiliating sense of 
being an impostor. 

All this would have been rather amusing if it 
had ended there. But Giudetta, in the warmth 
of her feelings, published the miracle far and 
near, and after that my experience became 
rather painful. It was not pleasant to have a 
poor cripple come toiling three or four miles 
down a rough mountain path on her crutches 
and present herself at the door entirely ex¬ 
hausted but with her face lighted up with a con¬ 
fident hope in my powers. And it was not 
pleasant, either, to have a charcoal-burner, to 
whom I had just declared my inability to cure 
his wife of an incurable complaint, offer me 
money, with an idea that I was ‘ holding off’ for 
a large price. 


329 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 

We came back to Florence early in the au¬ 
tumn, intending to go immediately and pass a 
week or two with Marina Baroni, my Venetian 
friend, in whom you have always taken an inter¬ 
est, at her beautiful palace near Bassano. But 
just about that time the Italian army were pre¬ 
paring to march upon Rome, and as people ex¬ 
pected a good deal more of a battle than really 
afterwards took place, Mamma thought it best to 
stay here a while and do a little work for the 
army. Every evening a dozen friends met to¬ 
gether around our table to prepare lint and 
bandages, and every day Mamma gave out work 
to four or five poor women. 

One evening, as we sat hard at work, singing 
little songs in chorus to make the work go faster, 
a friend of ours came hurrying in all out of 
breath, saying that the last train for Rome 
would depart in an hour, and that it would be 
the last opportunity to send our things, as after 
that the Government would use all the cars for 
troops. You may imagine the hurry. Fortu¬ 
nately there was a box in the house, and into that 
everything was crowded—finished and unfin¬ 
ished, the children, of course, being particularly 
anxious about their little heaps of lint, to which 
they added two or three threads at the last min¬ 
ute. Then the gentlemen present set off with 
their load to the station and were just in time. 

A few days after this, as I sat at my work in 
my little painting-room, I heard some one calling 


330 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


in the street, ‘The Italians are in Rome!’ And 
then, one after another, the bells of the various 
churches began to ring, and as I went to the win¬ 
dow, I saw a number of men and boys, like a 
swarm of black flies, covering the top of Giotto’s 
campanile, where they were raising the Italian 
flag, and I knew that Italy was all one at last! 

Soon after this we went to Marina’s palace, 
and about this visit I should like to tell you a 
great deal if I could, for it was one of the most 
interesting experiences of my life. Bassano is 
about twenty-five miles from Padova, at the foot 
of the Alps, in the midst of a luxuriant country, 
and is a perfect and uninjured specimen of .an 
Italian city of the trecento, the loggiate border¬ 
ing nearly all the streets. The various and beau¬ 
tiful towers, the city wall draped richly in ivy 
and Virginia creeper (this last was of a deep 
crimson when I was there in the month of Octo¬ 
ber, and climbed to the top of the highest 
towers), the rich carvings of balconies and win¬ 
dows, and the grace and endless variety of archi¬ 
tecture, all made me feel as if we had left the 
nineteenth century very far behind, and I, at 
least, felt in no hurry to renew my acquaintance 
with it. 

The city was clean, like most Venetian cities, 
and very quiet. The river Brenta ran through 
it, broad and majestic, of pure transparent 
water. Almost all the homes had gardens, and 
the flowers seemed to grow larger and deeper- 


331 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 

coloured than in other places, owing to the rich 
soil and pure air. Where the gardens were 
wanting, the curious little Venetian balconies 
were filled with flowering plants. 

I was hardly prepared to find my Marina liv¬ 
ing in a palace like a royal residence, but so it 
was; an immense building where one of the 
Popes lived in olden times, with defences like a 
fortification, with four square towers, with a hall 
in the centre, like a church, with gateways and 
windows and staircases of white marble. I must 
say she looked very much at home in it! We had 
a suite of four rooms and a balcony. My room, 
which was pretty much like the others, was so 
large that I felt at night almost as if I were 
sleeping out-of-doors. It had three windows of 
immense size, and massive shutters closed by 
wooden bars which I found myself quite unable 
to lift. The floor was of mosaic, and the Pope’s 
arms were wrought into the architectural orna¬ 
ments everywhere. Everything about the place 
was old; even the fine, ruffled linen on the beds 
went back to the days of the Venetian Republic. 

The life here was as strange as the place. We 
had visitors from morning till night, for two 
reasons: one, that we were Marina’s company, 
and she was the great lady of the place; the other 
that no Americans had ever been in the place be¬ 
fore, and we were therefore objects of extreme 
curiosity. The Bassano girls, Silvia’s friends, 
were pretty and gentle, with that peculiar soft- 


332 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


ness usual to girls educated on the old-fashioned 
Italian plan. Not one of them had ever walked 
out by herself, nor conversed with an unmarried 
man alone. Many hours have I passed walking 
up and down the great hall with one or another 
on my arm. And they were pleasant hours, too. 
Some lasting friendships were formed between 
us, and when I left the place, it was with a feel¬ 
ing of regret that almost astonished myself. 

After this we went to Padova, where we were 
invited to stay in the house of an Armenian 
prince, with whose family we had been ac¬ 
quainted some years before in Florence. After 
Padova, we came back to dear Florence, and here 
we have been ever since. Do you know Miss 
Mary Bryant of Beacon Street? I have just 
sent her a picture of mine which I should like to 
have you see. Another is to be exhibited at 
Child’s on Tremont Street. Good-bye now, dear 
Lilly. 

From your affectionate friend, 

Fanny. ’ ’ 

My aunt to her cousin, Mrs. Samuel W. Swett: 

“ Florence, November 7, 1871. 
Dear Cousin Mary: 

Fanny is working hard, as usual. There 
is quite a competition among the Americans for 
her pictures. She had one pen-and-ink drawing, 
the largest she ever made. Charles Appleton 
saw it and asked Miss Shaw to ascertain if it 


333 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 

could be had. But Miss Shaw ended by persuad¬ 
ing him to yield it to her. It cost sixty dollars, 
which is the most Fan has asked for a pen-and- 
ink drawing. 

It is the story of a nun, and Enrichetta sat for 
the nun. I hope you will see it, and then you will 
see how beautiful and lovely she is. She is said 
to have watched with another nun who is ill, and, 
having gone into the kitchen in the morning to 
make her some broth, she fell asleep from fa¬ 
tigue, and the Jesu Bambino came and watched 
the broth to prevent its burning. The picture 
represents the kitchen with all its details made 
out with the exactness of an old German picture. 
Through the door the sick nun is seen in bed 
with her prayer-book, Madonna and crucifix 
near her. The attendant sister has fallen asleep, 
with her beautiful head leaning against the side 
of the chimney, and the Bambino stands in the 
air in a circle of light holding his little hand over 
the broth on the fire. I do not suppose my de¬ 
scription gives you much idea of it, but I think 
it is a wonder! . . . 

Yours affectionately, 

L. Gr. A.” 

Francesca to Miss Lucy Woodbridge: 

“Venice, September 1st, 1872. 

Dear Lucy: 

Now that I have a quiet Sunday morning, 
I mean to enjoy an hour or two of conversation 


334 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


with you across the ocean. I am especially 
pleased that you retain so pleasant an impres¬ 
sion of my dear Florence and of the few days 
that we were able to pass together. You had not 
long been gone when we received some urgent 
and most distressing letters from Marina Baroni 
(that pretty Venetian friend, whom you met at 
our house and who asked you to come and see her 
at Venice) requesting us to come to her without 
delay. Her only son Paolo, who was ill, as you 
may remember, had become much worse, and 
they wanted us to come to them as soon as pos¬ 
sible. 

So we packed up our things in a great hurry 
and about the first of June came here to Venice, 
where we have been ever since. The first sight 
of Paolo shocked us all. He was all wasted 
away, as white as wax, and could hardly speak 
at all. Death was written in every line of his 
face, and yet, only a few months before, I had 
seen him strong and handsome, full of hope and 
courage, and busy with ambitious plans for his 
future life. But Paolo’s illness was not the 
worst. Though not yet twenty-one years old, he 
had been for some years past a believer in the 
doctrines of Renan and the rationalists. I leave 
you to imagine what it was to look death in the 
face with such comfort as they can give! I can 
never forget what sad days those were! Mamma 
was with him constantly. She was the only one 
whom he liked to have in his room. Paolo had 


335 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 

been fond of Mamma ever since he was a little 
child, and now he could hardly bear to have her 
out of his sight. 

But it was very seldom that he would let her 
speak a word of religion. He was courageous by 
nature and education, and by family tradition, 
and he accepted his fate with a certain proud 
resignation. If he sometimes listened to a few 
words about Our Saviour it seemed to be only 
from politeness or because he loved the speaker. 
There were many pious people, both here and in 
Florence, who made daily and almost hourly 
prayers for him, with such faith and persever¬ 
ance that I felt they could not all be wasted. 
Mamma, though often repelled, was never dis¬ 
couraged, and while on the one hand she served 
him with such devoted attention and affection 
that he became absolutely dependent upon her, 
on the other, she lost no opportunity of speaking 
a good word. At last he began to find great diffi¬ 
culty in breathing, and he thought—poor boy— 
that it was the air of Venice, and that if he could 
go up into the mountains, he should find relief. 

They took him away up to San Marcello, 
where we were two years ago and where his heart 
seemed to revive at the sight of the green, 
wooded hills and the pastures full of flowers and 
the venerable old chestnut trees which he had 
known and loved as a child. And then—who 
says that God does not hear prayers ?—the cloud 
passed away that had overshadowed his life, and, 


336 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


we cannot say how, by one of those miracles of 
grace which in all ages happen now and then, 
Paolo became a Christian. Oh Lucy, only think 
what cause of thanksgiving for us all! From 
the aged nun, who had never seen him, but who 
heard of his sad state and prayed for him in her 
convent, down to the little children in Gigina’s 
school who recited a prayer every day for the 
amico malato della Signora Francesca . He died 
penitent, humble, and at peace. 

So much for our summer! Of course we have 
had little heart for anything else. The Marchesa 
Nerli is quite well and has been on to Venice for 
a few days. It was a great pleasure to see her 
again. We shall probably go back to Florence 
in the course of a week or two. Good-bye. Much 
love from Papa and Mamma, and an affectionate 
embrace from 

Your old and ever loving friend, 

Fanny.” 

On the evening of January 25th, 1874, Mr. and Mrs. 
Janies Russell Lowell had been dining with the Alex¬ 
anders, and Aunt Lucia told us how the next morning 
he came bringing his beautiful sonnet to Francesca 
and the following letter, which was written on the 
opposite page. 


“ Florence, 25 January, 1874. 
Dear Miss Alexander: 

Whether the sonnet which you will find 
on the next page be bad or good, the blame or 


THE VISIT TO AMERICA 


337 


praise must be laid at the door of your mother’s 
second cup of coffee, which kept me awake long 
enough to compose it. I daresay your modesty 
will be tempted to deny the justice of my verses, 
but you must remember that poetry has a larger 
privilege of frankness than prose. I wish I 
could repay your music of last evening with bet¬ 
ter of my own, but I daresay the saint under 
whose image a pifferaro is doing his worst, finds 
a melody in the good will if none in the pipes. 

With kindest regards to your mother and 
father, and many thanks for the newspapers. 

Cordially yours, 

J. R. Lowell. 

• Mrs. Lowell’s rheumatism is better this morn¬ 
ing, thanks to the gracious intervention of Saint 
Opodeldoc. 


“To F. A.: 

Unconscious as the sunshine, simply sweet 
And generous as that, thou dost not close 
Thyself in art, as life were but a rose 
To rumple bee-like with luxurious feet; 

Thy higher mind therein finds sure retreat, 
But not from care of common hopes and woes; 
Thee the dark chamber, thee the unfriended, 
knows, 

Although no babbling crowds thy praise re¬ 
peat: 

Consummate artist, who life’s landscape bleak 
Hast brimmed with sun to many a clouded eye, 
Touched to a brighter hue the beggar’s cheek, 


338 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


Hung over orphaned lives a gracious sky, 
And traced for eyes, that else would vainly 
seek, 

Fair pictures of an angel drawing nigh! ’ ’ 

This sonnet was written in Florence in 1874 and 
was published in the Atlantic Monthly of May, 1875. 


CHAPTER V 


SOME ITALIAN FRIENDS 

My aunt’s most intimate friend in Florence was 
the Countess Letizia Rasponi, a granddaughter of 
Murat, the unfortunate King of Naples. The Countess 
Rasponi came every day to see Aunt Lucia. She was 
very fine-looking and always beautifully gowned, 
quietly, and in perfect taste. She came one autumn 
day wearing a new green velvet turban, very plain, 
with no trimming but a beautiful shade of green that 
was very becoming to her. Aunt Lucia was enchanted 
with it and asked if she could have one made like it 
for Francesca. The Countess Rasponi very readily con¬ 
sented and gave her the address of her milliner. When 
the turban came, it was an exact reproduction of the 
Countess Rasponi’s. But Francesca insisted upon 
having wide green ribbon strings attached to tie in a 
bow under her chin. It was no longer a turban. But 
Francesca’s face looked so good and sweet and kind 
above her great bow that I think on the whole it 
suited her better than the “ stylish ” turban. And no 
one who knew my aunt and Francesca well could as¬ 
sociate “ style ” with either of them. Francesca always 
wore what she called a “ Garibaldi,” a loose blouse, 
and Aunt wore old-fashioned full skirts and little jack¬ 
ets. The latter always said that she never altered her 
style of dress. Her only extravagance in dress was in 
her laces. Her little caps were always of the finest 
Venetian point. She wore these caps when she was 
quite a young woman. We have a miniature of her 
painted in one. She loved old, real lace, had inherited 
beautiful laces from her mother, and added to her stock 

339 



340 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

with laces from Florence and Venice until she had a 
really very fine collection. 

Although the Alexanders were Protestants, two of 
their warmest friends were Catholic Cardinals. The 
Patriarch of Venice, Cardinal Agostini, and the Arch¬ 
bishop of Verona, Cardinal Canossa. 

Cardinal Agostini was a very saintly man, devoted 
to the poor of Venice, by whom he was adored. Fran¬ 
cesca, in one of her letters, tells how he was arrested in 
Venice one evening when he was carrying his own 
mattress on his head to a poor man who was ill. His 
servants had refused to carry it because the man had 
some contagious disease. The officers would not be¬ 
lieve him, and he was taken to the station house, where 
he was identified as the Cardinal. 

The Archbishop of Verona, Cardinal Canossa, had 
told our aunt why he decided to enter the church. We 
were interested in his romantic story, had often ad¬ 
mired his picture with its fine, intellectual face, and 
were much pleased to inherit it. The Marchese 
Canossa, when a young man, was very much in love 
with the beautiful Countess Carlotti, who also was in 
love with him and was delighted when one day her 
father came to her and said, “ The Marchese Canossa 
wishes to marry you, and it would please me.” 

The Countess said, “ It shall be as you wish, Father.” 

But when the Marchese Canossa was brought to 
her, it was the old Marchese, the father of her lover. 
Count Carlotti insisted upon his daughter’s marrying 
the old Marchese, as he said his honour was involved. 
The young Marchese Canossa renounced the world and 
entered the church. The Countess never saw him 
again until she heard him preach as Archbishop of 
Verona. 

Francesca’s dearest friend was the charming and 
beautiful Countess Marina Baroni, a Venetian. Aunt 
Lucia and Francesca spent every spring and autumn 
with her in the Palazzo Rezzonico, her home at Bas- 



J/j&LA 

«21 / —- 9 * 



i*iy,. JPhtM .<*Ao) 


LODOVJCO KAISER * 




«#ia* 


* CORSO CAVOUR 


Cardinal Canossa 






























SOME ITALIAN FRIENDS 341 

sano, in the Veneto. The Countess Baroni wanted 
our aunt to have us presented at Court in Rome. 
This idea did not appeal to us at all. There was some¬ 
thing that we did want very much, however, and that 
was to arrange to live at some Italian hotel for the 
summer, where we would hear Italian spoken. The 
Countess Marina gave us a letter of introduction to 
the proprietor of a hotel in the mountains of the Tren- 
tino. Through this letter we made some very inter¬ 
esting Italian friends. When we arrived at the hotel, 
the proprietor was very much surprised to find that we 
spoke English. He said that he thought all Americans 
spoke Spanish. 

In the two following letters to Miss Lucy Wood- 
bridge, Francesca describes some Italian friends: 

“Florence, May 14th, 1871. 

Dear Lucy: 

I have received, since writing to you, two 
very interesting letters which gave me the great¬ 
est pleasure and for which I thank you with all 
my heart. 

We are just now preparing for a visit to En- 
richetta Nerli at Yiesca, and after that we ex¬ 
pect to go up in the mountains for the summer, 
returning to Florence probably in September. 
You ask me to tell you about my friends here, 
and I am much obliged to you for being inter¬ 
ested in them. 

Every Sunday after church I go to see my 
dear Marianna (her likeness stood on my book¬ 
case in Boston, always with flowers about it), 
and pass one or two delightful hours in her so¬ 
ciety. She is living now in the old palace in 


342 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


Florence with her blind father. He is a very 
grand old gentleman indeed, and seems to me to 
hold his daughter at a great distance, though he 
is very fond of her. She is a beautiful woman 
still, and resembles that Cassandra Capponi who 
married a Bardi in the Cinquecento, and from 
whom I suppose my friend is descended. She 
sits in a large, lofty room which ought to be 
cheerful, for it looks into one of the loveliest 
gardens in Florence, a very ancient garden 
where the rose-bushes have grown into trees, and 
where the birds sing all day as they do in the 
woods; a garden all laid out in geometrical pat¬ 
terns, with orange and lemon trees at regular 
intervals, and a little fountain in the middle that 
tinkles away sleepily all day to itself. And be¬ 
yond the garden wall she can look into the coun¬ 
try and see the mountains. 

But somehow the room never is very cheerful. 
It is all hung around with the portraits of dead 
friends and ancestors. I always feel a good deal 
like an intruder as I go up and down the great, 
lonely marble staircase, where my footsteps 
sound so loud in the silence, and where the 
statues look down on me as they have looked on 
so many generations of dead and gone Capponi. 

There is a beautiful suite of apartments on the 
first floor, never occupied. But she would not 
think of living there. They were furnished in 
some past century for one of the Capponi, who 
was about to be married. But he died just be- 


SOME ITALIAN FRIENDS 


343 


fore his wedding day, and the rooms have been 
kept always just as he left them. Even the bed, 
with its cover of brocaded velvet, is kept always 
made and ready for an occupant. The best 
rooms and the best furniture in the palace be¬ 
long to the dead man, and even the poor blind 
Marchese, almost at the extremity of life, creeps 
every day to his chamber in the story above quite 
uncomplainingly, never thinking of invading the 
rights of his long-departed relative. 

Angelina is very happy now with her new 
house and pretty little garden. Her husband has 
some place under the Government, and she 
thinks him the greatest man in the world. The 
house and garden are a kingdom to her, and she 
keeps them in beautiful order. . . .” 

The Cassandra Bardi, whom Francesca thinks her 
friend the Marchesa Farrinola resembles, is a portrait 
we inherited from our aunt. She is indeed beautiful, 
with her “ Venetian ” red hair and dark eyes, the color¬ 
ing as fresh as if it had been painted one hundred years 
ago instead of in the fifteenth century. 

“Florence, June 30th, 1871. 

Dear Lucy: 

We have been staying with Enrichetta this 
spring in the Val d’Arno, in the loveliest, sweet¬ 
est, and most out-of-the-world place you can im¬ 
agine. I should like to have you know some¬ 
thing of what must always be so beautiful a re¬ 
membrance to me. The villa was large and old, 


344 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


with a little lawn before it, bordered with rose¬ 
bushes, and a sun-dial over the great arch of the 
stone door. On one side was a well, shaded by 
great plane trees with stone seats under them, 
and on the other a little wood, and behind the 
house another lawn and a pretty, old-fashioned 
garden, with nothing new or foreign in it but the 
common Tuscan flowers,—jessamine, larkspur 
and poppies, and hundred-leafed roses, and those 
still sweeter damask roses, descended from the 
plant which the returned Crusaders brought to 
Florence from the Holy Land, but all larger and 
sweeter and fresher, it used to seem to me, than 
any other flowers. And there were old orange 
and lemon trees, of course, and a border of 
strawberries which produced a wonderful supply 
of fruit, and a grape-vine in blossom just then 
which scented all the air hi the neighborhood. 
Around the villa and its grounds, hi no way 
separated from it, lay the Lattoria, the farms be¬ 
longing to Enrichetta, with the white houses of 
the contadini. She lived like a queen in the 
midst of her little kingdom. Often she reminded 
me of some queen in an old saint’s story, as I 
saw the reverence and deep affection with which 
she was regarded by those about her, and the 
motherly care which she took of their smallest 
concerns. 

The Lattoria of Viesca stands among grand 
and beautiful mountains, which border the view 
on all sides, in the midst of the most luxuriant 



345 


SOME ITALIAN FRIENDS 

country which I ever saw. Little streams come 
rushing down everywhere from the Apennines 
and running to the Arno, which separates us 
from the neighboring ancient miniature city of 
Figline; and along their courses and by the sides 
of the road grow great oak trees of enormous 
size. 

The fields are divided from the road by hedges, 
principally of box and white-flowered sweet- 
brier, and they are planted with fruit trees, un¬ 
der which grows the grain (which was flowering 
when I was there) ; while the vines are festooned 
from one tree to another, so that each field is an 
orchard, a corn-field, and a vineyard, all in one. 
There we lived. And now that I have told you 
about the place, I must say something of the life 
there. 

Early in the morning I was waked sometimes 
by the singing of the birds, sometimes by that of 
the contadini. Soon Enrichetta came to my door 
and we went to picking flowers in the garden and 
ivy in the woods, and came back, loaded, to the 
house. Then there was work enough to do. I 
can shut my eyes now and see the drawing-room 
with its old-fashioned chairs covered with blue 
and white brocade, and its marble tables where 
she and I used to arrange our flowers. And then 
there was the altar in the little chapel. I think 
Enrichetta had a confused idea that the painted 
Madonna over it understood what we were do¬ 
ing, for she would often pause in her work and, 


346 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


resting her arms on the altar, and looking at the 
picture with affectionate familiarity, address 
friendly remarks to it, such as, 6 There! You 
don’t have such flowers as these every day. I 
know you are glad to have Francesca here!’ 

Then we all met at the breakfast table, which 
was also ornamented with flowers. And after 
that, Enrichetta used to walk with Mamma un¬ 
der an arched canopy of green which covered a 
long walk, cool on the warmest day. Then not 
infrequently she took me with her to visit some 
of the contadini. Oh, Lucy, how beautiful she 
used to look in her deep mourning dress, with 
the wild, barefoot children clustering about her, 
her little, soft hand playing with their tumbled 
curls while the parents and grandparents told 
her all the events of their peaceable lives, and 
received her unfailing sympathy and attention. 

I began this letter as much as a fortnight ago, 
and now I take it up again in the pretty little 
mountain town of San Marcello, eighteen miles 
above Pistoia. I will not begin on any long de¬ 
scription of San Marcello, but simply tell you 
that it is a miniature city, with its square and its 
fountain, its ancient church, and the palace 
where the Conti Guidi used to live all crowded 
together, all old and gray and quiet and weed- 
grown, standing among wonderful chestnut-cov¬ 
ered mountains. Girls knit their stockings and 
tend their little brothers and sisters on the door¬ 
steps of the terrible Conti Guidi, and nobody re- 


SOME ITALIAN FRIENDS 347 

members them and their greatness. But prayers 
are still said every day hi the old church, as they 
were nobody knows how many centuries ago. 
For the church is so old that no one can tell its 
age. 

Good-bye, dear Lucy. Please don’t forget me. 
Your old and true friend, 

Famiy.’ 9 

A friend of Aunt Lucia’s who came often to see her 
was the Princess Louise Murat. She was interested in 
hearing about the commanding officers of the Civil 
War in America, and asked if she could procure a 
photograph of General Sherman with his autograph. 
Aunt Lucia wrote to General Sherman and received 
from him the following letter: 

“Headquarters, Army of the United States, 
St. Louis, Mo., March 9th, 1876. 

Mrs. Francis Alexander, 

Florence, Italy. 

Dear Madam: 

Your good letter of February 15th is re¬ 
ceived, and I hasten to send you several auto¬ 
graphs. With this my note of astonishment that 
my scrawl should be in demand in the sweet val¬ 
ley of the ‘Arno.’ I had my photograph taken 
in Florence by one of Powers’ sons, but it was 
not good. Many others have been made here, but 
at this instant of time I have not one suitable to 
enclose with this. But I shall mark your letter 
so that soon I may be able to fulfill your whole 


348 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


request. The names of Bonaparte and Murat 
are as familiar to our ears as to those of French¬ 
men or Italians, and I would feel honoured to 
know that my poor photograph was held and 
prized by one bearing so honoured a name as 
either. In due time I will mail to your address 
a photograph, and will inscribe it, as you sug¬ 
gest, to the Princess Louise Murat. 

My daughter, Mrs. Fitch, is now established 
here in St. Louis. She has a son who manifests 
all the vigor and intellect of his race. At this 
moment I know of no one in Florence who could 
receive for me that sword of which you speak. 
But at Rome I have at this moment two particu¬ 
lar friends to whom I would confide any precious 
gift. First, Mr. and Mrs. William Scott of New 
York, known to our Minister, Mr. Marsh, and 
somehow connected with the building of the 
Protestant-Episcopal Church there. Second, 
Mrs. Euphrasia Mackay, c/o Marquand, Hooker 
& Co., bankers, Rome. The former is a relative, 
the latter a good friend who resides in St. Louis 
and would feel proud to bring me a sword from 
Venice. 

With great respects, &c., 

W. T. Sherman, Gen TP * 

In connection with the letter from General Sherman, 
we include this letter from the Rev. Arthur Lawrence, 
rector of St. Paul’s Church, Stockbridge, Mass., in 
which he tells of General Sherman’s great satisfaction 
at the capture of Fort McAllister: 


349 


SOME ITALIAN FRIENDS 

“My dear Mrs. Alexander: 

I have long delayed writing out some 
reminiscences that you kindly asked me to write. 
My own part in the Civil War was very small, 
but some experiences which I had, you were kind 
enough to find interesting. And at your request, 
I put them on paper. I think you wish especially 
an account of the Battle of Fort McAllister. It 
was at the close of Sherman’s march from At¬ 
lanta to the sea. 

We left Atlanta on or about the fourteenth of 
November, 1864. Sherman had sent back part 
of his army, under General Thomas, to meet the 
Confederate Army under General Hood, which 
it did a few weeks later and in great measure 
destroyed it at Nashville. Sherman himself, 
with about sixty thousand men, started across 
the country for Savannah. General Slocum 
commanded the left wing, General Howard the 
right. I was at that time acting aide-de-camp 
on Howard’s staff, having been for months in 
the western army as a delegate of the Christian 
Commission, before this campaign began. We 
had good weather and good roads. 

It was most amusing to see the negroes along 
the march; many of them were crazy to come 
with us. I remember seeing one negro woman 
dash into a house, seize a pair of shoes, appar¬ 
ently her sole possession, and rush after the 
troops. 

When we reached the outskirts of Savannah, 


350 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


which was occupied by the Confederates under 
General Hardee, it became necessary to capture 
Fort McAllister, which commanded the Ogeechee 
River, which gave an outlet to and communi¬ 
cated with the sea. Hazen’s division was sent 
down to take it by assault,—which it did very 
gallantly. The Confederates also defended it 
very gallantly. You might say that they did not 
surrender it but were overpowered. General 
Sherman and General Howard, with part of 
their respective staffs, witnessed the assault from 
a rice-mill on the bank of the river. It was 
within range of the fort, and they fired a few 
shells at us and we at them. But that had very 
little to do with the main action. The river be¬ 
tween the mill and the fort was very winding and 
the distance by water much greater than by a 
straight line. I was standing close to General 
Sherman a part of the time and could see how 
gratified he was as the assault went successfully 
on. 

When all was over he said we must go to the 
fort, and wished Howard to go with him. There 
was a leaky old boat by the bank, with three 
clumsy oars. Into it the two generals climbed, 
taking Captain Nichols of Sherman’s staff, who 
afterwards wrote the ‘ Story of the Great March, ’ 
and Colonel Strong and myself of Howard’s 
staff, and an orderly. It was rather a singular 
fact that out of that whole Western army, two 
out of the three men who started to row had 


SOME ITALIAN FRIENDS 


351 


learned to row on the Charles River, namely, 
Nichols and myself. 

Off we pushed, taking our chances of torpe¬ 
does, and started against the tide. It was rather 
a hard row, but there was a beautiful moonlight 
and the water was smooth. Sherman was in the 
highest spirits—and no wonder, for the cap¬ 
ture of the Fort had insured the success of the 
march. 

He told stories and called for songs, and I 
never again shall sing solos with so distinguished 
a chorus. Sherman was using a paddle over the 
side to counteract, by steering, the inequality of 
the three oars, but by and by his arm got tired 
from an old wound (at Shiloh or Bull Run, I 
have forgotten which). So I perched in the 
stern and took the paddle, while he sat with his 
back against my knees and talked like a mathe¬ 
matical professor about the ‘ resultant of force’ 
in connection with working of the paddle. 

General Hazen met us at the bank when we 
arrived, and we went to supper with him. While 
we sat at supper, Major Anderson, the Com¬ 
mander of the Fort, was brought in as a pris¬ 
oner, and General Sherman questioned him. He 
bore himself very well. It was very dramatic 
when Sherman said to the negro who was wait¬ 
ing on us,—Major Anderson’s private servant 
who an hour before had been his slave—‘Now, 
Robert’—I think that was his name—‘Now, 
Robert, remember that you are a free man. 





352 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


Don’t be afraid, but speak right up and answer 
my questions.’ 

And he did. 

It was most interesting and sad to go over the 
Fort. There were torpedoes planted about, 
whose position of course we did not know. Some 
one near us stepped on one which exploded and 
wounded or killed him, and a piece came very 
near General S. One young lad, I remember, 
was lying dead among the guns, bayonetted 
through the head, and his cheek, when I touched 
it, was as soft as a girl’s. I don’t think he could 
have been more than fifteen years old, but by 
that time the war at the South, as Grant said, 
‘had robbed the cradle and the grave.’ 

That was a great night and I shall never for¬ 
get it. One episode occurs to me in connection 
with those times. It occurred while we were ly¬ 
ing in camp outside Savannah before its capture. 
We were on a plantation whose owner had very 
naturally fled as our army approached. We 
used to make a bright fire in the evening and sit 
around it and sing. You know that there were 
many songs composed on both sides, each ridi¬ 
culing the other. One of the favorite Northern 
ones was called the ‘Year of Jubilo.’ It went 
somewhat thus: 

‘Say, darkies, have you seen old Massa with the 
mustache on his face 

Go down the road sometime this mornin’ like 
he’s gwine to leave the place, 


SOME ITALIAN FRIENDS 353 

He saw the smoke ’way up the ribber where the 
sunken gunboats lay— 

And he took up his hat and he left mighty 
sudden and I spec he run away. 

Chorus 

Old Massa’s gone, aha! the darkies stay, oho! 

It must be now that the Kingdom’s cornin’ and 
the year of Jubilo.’ 

I happened to sing that, and an old negro 
stepped out of the crowd of negroes who had 
been standing listening. ‘Dat’s true, Massa, you 
sing true song.’ 

All this, when I come to read it over, seems 
very insignificant, but I promised to write it out 
for you and here it is. Your personal interest 
in the writer may give it for you what interest it 
lacks in itself. Mother, after a very grave ill¬ 
ness of last December, is bright as ever, though 
her physical strength has not returned. My son 
is well and very happy at Cambridge. With 
love to Fanny, I am always faithfully and affec¬ 
tionately yours, 


A. L.” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE GIOSTBA 

Francesca’s first large book, The Sorellaccia, was 
drawn for Mrs. Quincy Shaw, who had been most 
generous to Francesca’s poor contadini. Mr. New¬ 
man 1 thought the drawings in the Sorellaccia so re¬ 
markable that he asked Sir Frederick Leighton to go 
with him to see Francesca and The Sorellaccia. When 
Sir Frederick Leighton saw these drawings, he said, 
“ No private individual should have this book. Let 
me take it and I will put it into the hands of the best 
living engraver.” The book, however, was promised 
to Mrs. Shaw, who, with her unfailing kindness, once 
loaned it to Mrs. Joseph Lyman, a sister of our aunt, 
Mrs. Tasker Swett. Mrs. Lyman sent for all the fam¬ 
ily to come and see it at her house. We were delighted 
with the exquisite work, and little thought that we 
should ever own a copy of it. 

Later, Francesca’s large book, The Roadside Songs 
of Tuscany , was purchased by Mr. Ruskin, who dis¬ 
tributed the drawings among different museums in 
England. After Mr. Ruskin’s death, Aunt Lucia, with 
the assistance of his cousin, Mrs. Severn, collected 
these drawings and had them reproduced in a large 
book called Tuscan Songs. Mr. Shaw was so much 
pleased with this reproduction that he decided to have 
a few copies made of The Sorellaccia. And with the 
great generosity which characterized both Mr. and 
Mrs. Shaw, they sent several copies to Francesca, and 
it is one of these precious copies which we have in¬ 
herited. 

Many of the Alexanders’ Boston friends were much 
interested in Francesca’s work and gave most gener- 

1 Mr. Henry R. Newman. An American artist living in Florence. 

354 


THE GIOSTRA 


355 


ously to aid her in trying to alleviate the suffering 
among the poor in Italy. Among these were Fran¬ 
cesca’s cousins, Mr. and Mrs. S. W. Swett, Mrs. Mason, 
Mrs. Shaw, the Misses Mason, and Mrs. Winthrop, 
Mrs. John L. Gardner, Mr. and Mrs. Wales, Mrs. Rus¬ 
sell and Miss Emily Russell, Miss Lilly Cleveland, and 
many others who were interested in her good work, 
and some of these names were long remembered by 
the poor contadini whom they had been the means of 
helping. The following letter is from Aunt Lucia to 
our mother: 


“Abetone, July 14th, 1874. 

Dear Mary: 

I was very glad of your letter, as I always 
am. Hardly anything interests me so much as 
the details from home about family and friends, 
and the more minute the better. I really meant 
to thank you for it before, but the heat seemed to 
come all at once and I hardly knew how to make 
the preparations to come here, which were 
neither small nor few. This house was built a 
hundred years ago in the best manner, and is cal¬ 
culated, and I suppose intended, to last centu¬ 
ries. It was amply supplied, I suppose, at that 
time, but little or nothing has been done since, 
and we had to send up almost everything we 
needed for housekeeping. This Fanny under¬ 
took, and Mr. Alexander attended to supplying 
such provisions as would keep. I attended to all 
the clothes and now we are resting on our oars. 
We live in a very curious fashion, everything 
we consume being brought many miles. I had 


356 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


some little matters for the dear girls that I 
hoped to be able to take them myself before 
now, and not long since I had a chance of send¬ 
ing them, so I thought I had better do so. I sent 
as large a box, and squeezed in just as many 
things, as I thought would do, and I was only 
sorry they were so few. It is very seldom any 
one offers to take anything home, and it is very 
natural, on account of difficulty with the custom 
house. We have the loveliest walks, and I in¬ 
herit my father’s love of walking. When you 
write, please tell me particularly of all your chil¬ 
dren—Sam, Willie, and all. Mr. A. and Fanny 
join me in sending much love to them all, the 
Doctor, and last, but by no means least, yourself. 
Do write when you can. 

Yours most affectionately, 

Lucia.” 

Our grandfather was indeed a great walker, and even 
when he was quite old was fond of taking long walks. 
Dr. Lothrop, the Unitarian minister, once said to him, 
“ Colonel Swett, I would like to join you in one of 
your walks some day.” 

So one morning Grandfather called for him. As 
they started out, Dr. Lothrop asked, “ Where did you 
think of walking this morning? ” 

“ Well,” said Grandfather, “ I thought we might just 
step over to Salem.” 

“ Colonel Swett,” said Dr. Lothrop, “ I proposed 
taking a walk with you; not a pilgrimage.” 

James Russell Lowell wrote as follows to Miss Lilly 
Cleveland from his home at Elmwood on the 17th of 
June, 1875: 


357 


THE GIOSTRA 
u Dear Miss Cleveland: 

I thank you heartily for letting me have 
the pleasure of reading dear Fanny Alexander’s 
letter. It was so simply natural and full of right 
feeling that I seemed to see her as I read. 

There are parts of the letter (those about the 
Giostra) that I think ought to be secured in some 
' permanent form. Few Italians think of describ¬ 
ing such things; few strangers have the luck to 
see them. The heavy roller of the nineteenth cen¬ 
tury (which flattens out everything to a decorous 
lawn level) will soon be going over them. Surely 
’twould be no breach of confidence to copy out 
those passages that have an historical and 
aesthetic interest—(the latter they already have, 
the former will soon come to them)—and print 
them in The Nation . Having done this and got 
her forgiveness (you may make me the scape¬ 
goat if you like) ask her for more. She tells so 
simply what she sees, and sees with such unadul¬ 
terated eyes, that what she describes has the rare 
value of solid fact. 

With kindest remembrances from both of us 
to Mrs. Cleveland and yourself, I remain always 
very sincerely yours, 

J. R. Lowell.” 

In her letters Francesca describes several giostras. 
The one to which Mr. Lowell alludes is in the follow¬ 
ing letter to Miss Lilly Cleveland: 


358 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


“Florence, May 11th, 1875. 

Dear Lilly: 

I have heard how much trouble you have 
been having this winter with your dear mother’s 
illness. I cannot bear to think of any shadow 
on your life or hers, or on that beautiful and 
happy home where I passed the happiest days of 
my stay in America. 

You will perhaps be surprised to hear that two 
years ago, just after we had parted from you, we 
decided to leave Venice and go to Abetone, where 
we could have an apartment in the Government 
house. The first day’s journey took us to 
Pistoia. The next day we went over the beauti¬ 
ful mountain road among the chestnut trees and 
the pastures and the little old towns and villages 
to dear old Abetone, where we have passed so 
many happy summers, and before that night we 
were fairly established in our rooms at the Ad¬ 
ministration. How much there was to see and 
to hear, and how glad our friends were to see us! 
So there we stayed until the autumn. It was 
pleasant to go the old walks again and to live 
among the old friends. If you could have seen 
the presents that they brought us! The baskets 
of eggs, and wild strawberries, and branches of 
cherry trees with the fruit attached, and balls of 
butter, and mushrooms, and strings of little fish 
from the streams, and flowers innumerable. 

Last year they sang the giostra again. I had 
always wished to hear another, and now, after 


THE GIOSTRA 


359 


five years that none had been performed, we have 
a very beautiful one. I have told you so often 
about the giostra that I should not say anything 
about it now were it not that this was a very 
original one, and very unlike any I had ever seen 
before. 

Of all the stories in the world, they chose for 
performance the death of King Louis of France 
(I believe they thought there was only one King 
of that name), and the Old French Revolution. 
Of course it was all set to the old melancholy 
music and simple stately poetry, and was per¬ 
formed by the men and boys of the neighborhood 
in that beautiful green field near our house. The 
excitement about it in all the country was inde¬ 
scribable. Everybody came from all the scat¬ 
tered villages and farms for miles and miles. 
Shepherds left their flocks unguarded on the 
mountains; one man whom I know working in 
the maremma made a journey of nearly two hun¬ 
dred miles, and much of it on foot, for the sake 
of being present. Nothing could equal the 
beauty of the scene, as all these people, in the 
gayest dresses, sat or stood in scattered groups 
on the hillside which looked down on the per¬ 
formers in the deep sunshine of a late August 
afternoon, while the shadows of the near and 
heavy white clouds floated occasionally over all. 

The true and terrible story had been turned 
into a pious legend, the poor King enacting the 
part of a saint. He did not look much like the 


360 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


portraits of his prototype. He was a small thin 
man with an ugly but very expressive face, burnt 
to a dark brown by long exposure to the sun, 
rough black hair, streaked with gray, and fiety 
black eyes. ITe was much bent by continual farm 
work and looked so queer in a blue frock with a 
lace ruffle around the neck, and a tall pasteboard 
crown, that at first appearance it was quite im¬ 
possible not to laugh. However, his voice was 
magnificent for power, sweetness, and expres¬ 
sion. Every word which he sang could be heard 
distinctly by even the most remote spectators on 
the hill. And he had everybody in tears before 
he had sung many minutes. 

The Queen was yet more original. Poor Marie 
Antoinette! She was a charcoal-burner of im¬ 
mense stature (much taller than her husband) 
with a face rather handsome for a man, though 
in a somewhat grim and savage style, but posi¬ 
tively terrible for a woman. She towered above 
her assailants in a red gown, with an old lace veil 
over her short black hair, and performed her 
part energetically. 

Robespierre, a handsome young shepherd who 
sang a little out of tune, wore his usual dress 
with the addition of a red sash, while Marat, a 
little old man who commonly takes diabolical 
parts, owing to a genius for making up faces and 
jumping, having no red sash to wear, had, with a 
bold conception, girded his waist with a red 
pezza bordered with green, commonly used to 


THE GIOSTRA 


361 


bandage his baby. But all these queer-looking 
people performed with the artistic feeling which 
seems universal in that part of the country. 

The effect on the spectators was magical. The 
King had sufficient good sense not to affect 
royalty, of which he knew nothing. He was a 
simple countryman fallen into the hands of bri¬ 
gands, tormented with fears for his family, be¬ 
wildered as to his own condition and the cause 
of so much ill-treatment, but patient and de¬ 
votedly pious. And not trying for too much, he 
was both pathetic and dignified. As for the poor 
children, they took it all in earnest and cried till 
their eyes were quite red and swollen. The 
King, after being enveloped in a large sheet, was 
beheaded at last, with a sword, by a young man 
of the guardia nazionale of Cutigliano, among 
the sobs and indignant remonstrances of the 
hundreds of people on the hillsides. 

Since we came back to Florence, we have 
passed a quiet, busy, and most uneventful winter. 
We have had a great pleasure in having the 
Forbeses here this year. Indeed, they now spend 
every winter in Florence. Papa and Mamma 
join me in many affectionate messages to your 
mother and yourself. Edwige thanks you much 
for your remembrance of her, and I remain al¬ 
ways, dear Lilly, 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny.’ ’ 


362 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


“ Florence, October 6th, 1877. 

Dear Lilly: 

I take up my pen after about two months, 
to finish this letter which I began last summer 
at Abetone, and which I was not able to finish 
at the time, as I was obliged to draw several por¬ 
traits in great haste, for friends who were going 
away from the hotel. 

The great event at Abetone this year was the 
visit of the Bishop of Pistoia, who came to 
cresimare all the children. He comes only once 
in several years so that all the children have to 
be produced, in arms and out, not only from the 
little village but from many distant and solitary 
farms in sheltered hollows of the mountains. 
Many of the children had never left home before. 

Of course there were great preparations. 
More than a week beforehand the priest sent to 
ask my assistance. He was anxious to give the 
Bishop a suitable reception and he thought that 
his servant could cook a fair dinner. But she 
had never made a pudding. Now, as the Bishop 
was coming on a fast-day, the pudding was more 
than usually important, and he begged me to 
help him out of his difficulties by making one 
myself. The pudding had to serve for twelve 
priests besides the Bishop, and I had no oven. 
Nothing but a great open chimney. Lena, my 
servant, looked very solemn about it, but ex¬ 
pressed a strong conviction that we should suc¬ 
ceed, and so we did. The pudding, magnified 


THE GIOSTRA 363 

into two, was completed on the very morning of 
the Bishop’s arrival, and, after being inspected 
with grave admiration by many of the inhabi¬ 
tants, was carried off in state by the priest’s 
servant Philomena, Lena accompanying as a 
guard of honor. Both the women looked as seri¬ 
ous as they did when marching in the August 
procession with the relics of S. Leopoldo. Mean¬ 
while Mamma was called upon to fold the nap¬ 
kins and superintend the setting of the table, 
while Papa undertook to provide the flowers, 
and brought some really splendid roses from 
Piamalbo, five miles down the mountain, which 
made the dinner table quite magnificent. 

The Bishop, after all, did not look very for¬ 
midable. He was a thin, sober, elderly man, with 
a face expressing humility and patience rather 
than stateliness. The service in the church was 
beautiful. One little girl made her appearance 
in this world that morning just in time not to 
miss the Bishop’s visit, and, having been band¬ 
aged in the usual fashion and ornamented with 
a cap and pink ribbons, was wrapped up in a 
blanket and carried off two miles to the church, 
where her quiet and decorous behavior served as 
a good example to persons of more mature age. 
After the Bishop’s departure, the priest (who is 
of contadino origin) came to express his thanks, 
and this is what he said: 4 The Bishop is a very 
abstemious man and keeps a great many fasts, 
but he did ask for a second help of the pudding. ’ 


364 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

After all, the pleasantest days at Abetone were 
the last; after the people were all gone from the 

r 

hotel, it seemed then more like old times. The 
autumn flowers are the loveliest of all, I think, 
in the mountains; all the fields are full of a sort 
of purple crocus, and the banks are covered with 
fringed gentian such as you have in America, 
and the mountain ash trees, which are generally 
planted about the houses, are quite weighed 
down with their bunches of red berries. Then 
the air is of a crystalline clearness and the sky 
of a deep blue, and everythmg so bright and 
beautiful that life seems more than ever worth 
having. The very remembrance of those days 
makes me happier. 

I leave you now that I may write a few lines 
to your mother. Much love to Pauline and her 
family and all our friends. 

Yours affectionately, 

Fanny.” 


CHAPTER VII 


1880 to 1884 

On March 27th, 1880, after an illness of a few 
months, Uncle Alexander died in Florence. The Alex¬ 
anders had been such a happy united family that the 
parting brought to Aunt Lucia and Francesca the deep¬ 
est sorrow. All through our uncle’s illness, no one ever 
heard from him an impatient word. I believe he was 
one of the best and kindest men who ever lived. In 
his manner there was at times a certain bluntness, 
and he was less tactful than Aunt Lucia. Yet they had 
equally kind hearts, and no one ever came to them in 
trouble without finding help and sympathy. Their be¬ 
ing such a truly happy family was not solely because of 
their great love for one another. In their deep religious 
feeling, their work, their interests, and their pleasures, 
they were all absolutely congenial. 

Each had artistic talent; each loved music, poetry, 
and flowers, and life in the country. They especially 
delighted in long country walks, and in one of her 
letters to our mother, Aunt Lucia writes, “ I inherit 
my father’s love of walking.” 

Often they would start out in the afternoon for a 
walk through the beautiful country, stopping to rest 
in some pleasant place on the way home while Aunt 
Lucia read aloud. Francesca writes to her friend, Miss 
Lilly Cleveland, “ This is the pleasantest time of the 
day.” 

It seems sad that Uncle Alexander could not have 
lived to know of Francesca’s fame and of the great ap¬ 
preciation of her wonderful work. It was more than 
a year and a half after our uncle’s death that Mr. 
Ruskin came into the lives of Aunt Lucia and Fran- 

365 


366 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


cesca. It seemed almost like a blessed consolation 
sent from Heaven, bringing, as it did, Mr. Ruskin’s 
brotherly affection for Francesca and his devoted love 
for Aunt Lucia, whom he always called his “ Mam- 
mina” 

Francesca to Miss Lucy Woodbridge: 

“Abetone, August 7,1880. 

Dear Lucy: 

I am truly obliged to you for your kind 
thought of me in my trouble, and for your beau¬ 
tiful letter, which was more of a comfort to me 
than I can tell you. I read it over and over. 
You seem to understand, as few can do, both the 
greatness of our loss and the uncommon con¬ 
solation which has been given us. His passing 
away was most peaceful and beautiful. Almost 
his last words were, ‘I put all my trust in the 
Lord. ’ He had been feeble, as I think you know, 
and mostly confined to his bed for several 
months. During all this time he was in a most 
happy state of mind, and, strange to say, ap¬ 
peared to enjoy his life more, almost, than I have 
ever known him to do. He would lie and watch 
the sky and clouds with never-failing enjoyment. 
He had always loved them when in health, and 
much more in his illness. He used often to con¬ 
sole himself by repeating over passages of the 
Bible and hymns, of which he knew a great 
many. In particular, I used often to hear him 
recite that beautiful hymn, ‘Up to the hills I lift 
my eyes.’ It was a great mercy that his sight 


1880 TO 1884 


367 

and hearing remained quite good until the end. 
His voice also, strange to say, remained always 
quite clear and firm and not at all like that of an 
old person. He was served all through his ill¬ 
ness with the greatest devotion, both by my good 
Edwige, whom you know, and the good man¬ 
servant who was also most devoted to him. And 
they both said, after he was gone, that they had 
never known him under any circumstances to 
lose his patience for a single moment. We never 
realized how old he had grown; he continued up 
to the end so young in spirit. 

He passed away at last in his sleep, without 
pain or struggle. Heath, as it came to him, had 
no horror, and will never seem so terrible to me 
again. It would take too long, dear Lucy, for 
me to tell you all the kindness that we received, 
in the first days of our trouble, from every one 
about us. Everything was done that could be 
done to help and comfort us. The funeral was 
on Easter Sunday, and all our nearest friends 
were present. 

The service was very simple, according to the 
custom of the Italian Evangelical Church, but 
very truthful and comforting. The Catholics 
who were present were very much impressed, 
especially by the hymn sung about the grave in 
the open air. What this loss is to us, dear Lucy, 
you can imagine better than I can tell you. All 
the world seems changed to us. We have lost 
the principal interest and occupation of our 


368 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


lives, but I would not complain. I have written 
you much on this subject, being sure of your af¬ 
fectionate sympathy, but I will try now to pass 
on to other things, though this is always in my 
mind. 

We came up here early in June, and Mamma, 
who was much exhausted, has improved in health 
and strength since she has been here. She is re¬ 
signed and tranquil, but it seems as if the world 
were over for her. Of my own life I have not 
much to tell you. I am working very hard on a 
book which I began a year and a half ago and 
which I think would please you if you should see 
it. Marina Baroni, who attracted you so much 
when you were here at our house, has now two 
grandchildren. She is the youngest and pret¬ 
tiest grandmother that I ever saw. Please give 
best love to your dear Aunt Rebecca and accept 
the same yourself from 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny Alexander.” 

From our aunt to our mother: 

“Asiago, July 8th, 1881. 

Dear Mary: 

I was very glad to receive your kind and 
pleasant letter. We find at present that les ex¬ 
tremes se toucTient; we have passed from the 
most magnificent palace, the most luxuriant 
country, and the most elegant old-fashioned aris¬ 
tocracy, to houses thatched with straw and 


1880 TO 1884 


369 

blackened by smoke, a barren valley high in the 
mountains, and poor people whose language we 
cannot understand. It is a very poor place for 
Fanny’s book, 1 which is her main interest at 
present, as well as mine; for we find neither 
place nor people in the least picturesque. But 
she got it a good way along at Bassano, where 
everything was so beautiful, and she is finishing 
up the music and the poetry now. We hardly 
know how to manage the summers away from 
Abetone, but there had been there thirty cases of 
smallpox and six deaths from it, and though it 
had almost died out, and the risk was small, I 
did not dare to go, and it has proved just as well. 
For Fanny’s visits to her friends have quite 
brought her back to her old self and her singu¬ 
larly happy nature. We were very glad in the 
spring to see Cousin Joseph Coolidge’s daugh¬ 
ters, most lovely, interesting girls. Elise re¬ 
minded me very much of dear Aunt Tasker. 
She has much the same extreme refinement and 
elegance of manner. She looks rather delicate, 
but her sister is the picture of blooming health. 
We made great friends and they were much ad¬ 
mired. 

Please thank the Doctor for his letters. I al¬ 
ways feel that writing to one of you is just the 
same as writing to you both. But I will try to 
write to him the next time. My present manner 

iBoadside Songs of Tuscany . Published in America under the 
title of Tuscan Songs. 


370 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


of living offers very little that is worth his read¬ 
ing or my writing. Please also thank him for 
the poetry he was kind enough to copy for me. 
I liked it very much. I had never seen it before, 
and have no idea who wrote it. I envy you hav¬ 
ing the chance to read all the nice American 
books I see noticed in the papers. Mr. Dana 
sent us his description of Cuba. It contained 
his autograph, which made it doubly interesting. 
But I prefer Two Years Before the Mast.’ I 
cannot tell you how much we enjoyed seeing him 
and his family in the winter. One daughter was 
Protestant and the other Catholic. 

I hope you often see Charlotte and Wilmina 
and the children. Though you are so far apart, 
you seem to take so much comfort together. 
Fanny and I send much love to you, the Doctor, 
Lilly, Lou and May, and Sam and William, when 
you write to them. 

Yours very affectionately, 

Lucia.’ ’ 

On October 8th, 1882, Mr. Ruskin paid his first visit 
to our aunt and cousin. In the three following letters, 
Francesca describes Mr. Ruskin’s visits, and also the 
effect they had upon her work. 

Francesca to Miss Lilly Cleveland: 

“Florence, December 9th, 1882. 

Dearest Lilly: 

I do not feel as if I could ever thank you 
enough for your beautiful long letter, which con- 


1880 TO 1884 


371 


tained so much that made me happy, but above 
all, that hope of seeing you again before so very 
many months! Your account of the Dedication 
service at Mt. Desert was beautiful and most 
touching, and I do wish that I could have been 
there, to help you all arrange the blackberry 
vines and wild roses and so forth beforehand, 
which would have been just the work for me. 
How lovely it was to have your dear aunt’s last 
w T ork on the altar-cloth, and the whole service 
must have been something never-to-be-forgotten. 
As for your uncle, Bishop Doane, I should think 
it would have been almost more than he could 
bear. But I see by your letter that you are in a 
great hurry to hear all my ‘ wonderful adven¬ 
tures’ and so I will begin to write them down as 
well as I can. If you have read Mamma’s letter 
to Mr. Wales you know already how it all hap¬ 
pened. 

Mr. Newman had been in love with my book 1 
for a long while, and when Mr. Ruskin, who is 
his intimate friend, came to Florence, he spoke 
to him about it in such a way that he (Mr. R.) 
expressed a wish to see it. When Mr. Newman 
came around to make an appointment for him to 
come, I must say I was a good deal frightened, 
for I had heard that he was a very hard man, and 
severe in his judgment and very difficult to 
please. And I thought that Mr. Newman was 
mistaken in the extravagant value which he set 


i The Roadside Songs of Tuscany. 


372 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

upon my work. However, I cannot imagine why 
people should have given me such an account, 
for he proved to be just the contrary. A very 
pleasant, elderly gentleman with a kind face and 
a fine voice and very simple friendly manners 
. . . nothing about him that I should think 

even a baby could be afraid of! He spent a very 
long time in looking over my book, examining 
the smallest details very minutely but without 
finding fault with anything, much to my sur¬ 
prise ; indeed, he appeared to me to be only too 
much disposed to be pleased with everything. 
However, perhaps this was only politeness. 

One thing I soon observed, that he cared more 
for the intention of the picture than the execu¬ 
tion and always knew exactly what I meant to 
express, even when it seemed to me that I had 
failed in representing it. I never saw anybody 
who could enter so entirely into the meaning of 
a picture. After he had looked at a few pages, 
he said, ‘I see that you have put pretty much all 
your life into this book/ Which was true, but 
I could not see how he knew it. 

He liked the drawing of a basket in one of the 
pictures and Mamma began to tell him how the 
particular basket, from which it was drawn, had 
made many journeys to the prison and back, at 
the time when a poor young servant-girl whom 
I knew (a great unfortunate in every way) was 
shut up there for stealing. I tried to stop her 
telling it; because I had heard he was so very 


1880 TO 1884 


373 

rigid in his ideas, I thought he would be shocked 
at my having anything to do with a woman in 
such a place. But he, seeing my confusion, said 
very kindly and dropping his voice , € “In prison 
and ye visited me!” ’ 

After looking at the book, he talked to us some 
time about its destination and went away, say¬ 
ing he should write to us about it. However, I 
did not think we should ever hear from him 
again, but I did him an injustice. For the next 
day, there arrived a letter of four closely written 
pages (in the poetical style which you are ac¬ 
customed to in his books) and containing the re¬ 
markable proposition which you know, to buy 
my book and place it in his museum. Dear Lilly, 
however much you were astonished when you 
heard it, I am very sure that you could not have 
been so much so as I was—I was perfectly be¬ 
wildered, and had to read the letter over and 
over to be sure that there was no mistake. To 
think of my book—which I had supposed would 
remain, like Pauline’s, among my friends, which 
contained all the impressions of my out-of-the- 
world, uneventful life, with the portraits of my 
contadini friends, with the flowers of which I 
could remember where every one grew, and even 
with the likenesses of such things as Mamma’s 
work-table and the window of my little room at 
Abetone and the copper pitcher from our kitchen 
there—to think of all that going to a museum! 
It seemed almost like being put in a museum my- 



374 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

self! And to think of Mr. Ruskin, whom, until 
the day before, I had regarded with a singular 
mixture of terror and respectful admiration, 
proposing seriously to come up to my sky-par¬ 
lour and see me work, for that was what he said 
in his letter, requesting leave to do so as if it were 
a great favor, though it is a privilege enjoyed by 
all the beggars who choose to avail themselves 
of it! To me it all seemed just impossible. How¬ 
ever, of course there was nothing to do but to 
accept the combination of honor and confusion 
which had come upon me. 

The preparations for our distinguished visitor 
were of the simplest, and consisted chiefly in Ed- 
wige’s flapping about with an old linen duster 
for half an hour beforehand, after which she put 
on a clean white apron and sat down with her 
knitting to admit the Signor del libro, as she 
concluded to call him, after several ineffectual 
attempts to pronounce his name. A little before 
the appointed time, he arrived in company with 
Mr. Newman, whom we had persuaded to come 
with him by way of making the visit a little less 
trying. I asked him what he would like to see 
me draw, and he selected a cluster of cyclamen 
from among a handful of wild flowers which Ed- 
wige had brought me that morning from the 
country, so I put them on the table before me 
and went to work. Luckily, I have a pretty sure 
hand with flowers. 

Now, dear Lilly, you have asked me to tell you 


1880 TO 1884 


375 


all about Ms conversation, and so I have stopped 
my writing for a few minutes and tried to think 
of what he said and how he said it, that I may 
tell you all that you would like to hear. He is 
kind and respectful in his manners, more like 
some old-fashioned Italians whom I have known 
than like an Englishman; very polite, apparently 
from a certain natural refinement and capability 
of entering into the feelings of those about him, 
but talks no nonsense and makes no compli¬ 
ments. He listens always with great attention to 
everything which one says, which made me feel 
a little as if I ought to have something to say 
worth listening to, which I had not. And when 
he becomes interested in what he himself is say¬ 
ing, he talks exactly as he writes, and appears al¬ 
ways to be thinking aloud. So much for his 
manner of speaking. 

As for what he said, I cannot remember 
enough of it connectedly to give you a very good 
account of it, though I can recall some of his 
remarks. I remember that he took a great deal 
of notice of a few flowers about the room, re¬ 
garding them with an interest which amounted 
to a positive affection, reminding me of no one 
excepting my own father, who had the same feel¬ 
ing. And when I observed it, he said , 6 1 am very 
fond of them. When I was a child, they were 
pretty much the only companions that I had. I 
was almost always alone and my mother used to 
send me to play in the garden, and I used to go 


376 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


about and look at the flowers, and they became 
companions to me, and they have seemed like 
companions to me ever since.’ 

He said a good deal about my little story of 
Ida, which he had just read, and quite took my 
breath away by proposing to take it away and 
have it printed. He said it would be a very use¬ 
ful religious book (which you may believe I was 
glad to hear), especially from the absence of all 
sectarian feeling in it, and he seemed much 
pleased at the strong friendship and religious 
sympathy between Ida and myself, belonging as 
we did to two different and usually opposing 
churches. And in connection with this, he spoke 
with much sadness of the enmity between dif¬ 
ferent Christian sects, saying that he had known 
good Christians, and equally good Christians, in 
all of them (which is my own experience). 

But what surprised me most of all was that he 
talked to me in the most familiar and even con¬ 
fidential manner about things which concerned 
himself—of his illness and his recovery, of his 
work in England, of his friends there, living and 
dead, and of many of his own interests, and 
seemed even to find a certain comfort in doing 
so, just exactly as the poor women who come in 
from the country to bring me a bunch of flowers 
and have an hour’s gossip talk to me of their own 
troubles and cares and pleasures. 

And so now, dear Lilly, I think I have written 
you a pretty full account of the memorable visit, 


1880 TO 1884 


377 


as you call it—the only full account which I have 
written to any one. I had almost forgotten to 
answer one of your questions. I thought of show¬ 
ing him the 'garden on the roof’ but had not 
sufficient courage to do so, though I daresay he 
would have liked it. With regard to my senti¬ 
ments, of which you ask me to speak, I am afraid 
I did not have any beyond bewilderment. To tell 
the truth, I have only quite lately begun to un¬ 
derstand a little what has happened to me. He 
came twice again to see us but did not come again 
to my room, and before he took leave finally, he 
had come to treat us with familiar and even (as 
it seemed to us) affectionate friendship, and 
when he left us at last, it was with tears in his 
eyes. 

And now, though I have told you such a very 
long story, I must just add a few words more to 
tell you how it ended. Soon after his departure, 
Edwige came to us in trembling agitation to say 
that the Signor del libro, when he said good-bye 
to her, had given her, as she thought, a soldo, be¬ 
cause she had carried some things downstairs for 
him, but it did not look to her like any soldo that 
she ever saw before, and she wanted us to look 
at it. It proved to be a piece of gold, the first 
which she had ever possessed. At first she was 
in great distress, thinking he must have given it 
to her by mistake for a soldo and that she ought 
to find some means of returning it. But when 
she found that he had given another just like it 


378 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


to the man-servant Raffaello, her conscience was 
tranquillized. 

A day or two afterwards she told me that find¬ 
ing herself in the possession of so much money, 
she had given a party, and I feared, from the 
tone of latent excitement in which she spoke of 
it, she had been imitating the prodigal son 
and wasting her substance in riotous living. 
However, it proved that the party consisted 
exclusively of her grandchildren and the enter¬ 
tainment of roast chestnuts, so my mind was re¬ 
lieved. And she spent all the rest of her money 
in winter clothes for the poorer members of her 
family. 

Dear Lilly, it seems to me that I have written 
you a volume and not a letter, but you said you 
wanted to hear all these things, and so I Ve taken 
you at your word. I’m so much pleased about 
your cottage in the mountains. I think that the 
building of that cottage was the happiest thing 
that you could possibly have done for yourselves, 
and that text, £ I will lift up mine eyes unto the 
hills from whence cometh my help / comes home 
to my heart in a peculiar way. My dear father 
was always saying over to himself the poetical 
version of that psalm: TJp to the hills I lift my 
eyes: and I know it all by heart from hearing 
him say it. What a beautiful place it must be 
from your account! All that you tell me about 
our dear Pauline Shaw and her family is to me 
most interesting. 


1880 TO 1884 


379 


Dear Lilly, do write to me soon if you can. 
Your letters are the greatest comforts. And tell 
me if I may really build on the hope of seeing 
you here, for I am almost afraid to set my heart 
on it. With best wishes for a happy Christmas 
to you all, I remain always 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny.’ ’ 


“Dear Lilly: 

You asked me to write you everything 
that had happened, so I will tell you that, after 
the good fortune which had befallen me became 
known, my work and myself became objects of 
general curiosity, and my peaceable little room 
was filled from one week’s end to another with 
the strangest variety of people that you can im¬ 
agine, of every possible nationality. At first they 
used to try and obtain an introduction. After¬ 
wards, they laid aside all ceremony, and simply 
walked in. Often there would be as many as 
four languages spoken at once. After people 
heard that Mr. Ruskin had looked over me while 
I worked, everybody else wanted to look over me, 
and it never made the smallest difference what 
I was doing. 

I remember one day a party of English people 
came to look at me while I was copying out a list 
of names for my index, and they said it was most 
wonderful! The only wonderful thing about it 


380 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


was that I could do it without making a mistake 
when these people were looking at me all the 
while and talking to me. And there were so many 
near-sighted people who would put their heads 
between me and the paper that I was working 
upon, and then expect me to go on just the same; 
and other people would carry off two or three of 
my pens to try. I was always finding myself 
short of pens in consequence. But such a strange 
variety of people as I have seen! There were 
Mr. Ruskin’s adorers, who would ask where he 
stood when he came to my room and then, with 
much solemn emotion, would go and stand in the 
same spot. And then there were his enemies, 
some of whom regarded me with positive malig¬ 
nity, made up faces at my work and accused me 
of not doing it as I said I did; while others 
looked upon me as an innocent victim and 
warned me sadly of the ill-treatment that I must 
shortly expect to receive. Then there were the 
professional sight-seers who looked on Edwige 
and myself exactly as they would have looked on 
any kind of curious wild beasts, and appeared to 
be taking notes of our habits. 

I remember one old lady*who, after reading 
some of the little songs, asked who translated 
them, and on hearing that I had done so, re¬ 
marked to the people near her, ‘ Oh! Then she is 
a poetess! I never saw one before, and I’ve 
always wanted to. I must have a look and see 
what she is like!’ And, arranging her spectacles, 


1880 TO 1884 


381 


she turned and took a long, comfortable stare at 
me. But she made no further remark and, I 
fear, was not pleased, and did not think I looked 
poetical. 

Some people seemed mortally afraid of me 
(Only think of me as an object of terror!) and 
kept at a distance and talked in whispers and 
changed color painfully if I spoke to them. 
Others paid me extravagant and not always in¬ 
telligible compliments. I have been much puz¬ 
zled to know what one gentleman meant who, 
after remaining silent until near the end of his 
visit, began to say in an impressive manner, 
‘If Fra Bartolomeo could come out of his 
grave . . / and then did not finish his sen¬ 

tence. He repeated the same words again, how¬ 
ever, after a short interval and yet again several 
times, until I asked him what there was that 
made him think of Fra Bartolomeo. And he 
then said, ‘If Fra Bartolomeo could come out 
of his grave, I think he would want to take draw¬ 
ing lessons! ’ 

Dear Lilly, I am sure you must think that I 
am exaggerating, but I assure you that it is not 
so and that all which I tell you really happened, 
just as I tell it! Sol feel now as if I had been 
temporarily on the list of distinguished people . 
But it is all over now. With the departure of, 
the book, everybody ceased to take any notice of 
me, and my room is quiet now, as it was be¬ 
fore. 


382 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


But I forgot to say that while the exhibition 
was going on, the country people kept coming 
just the same, and bringing their presents of 
eggs and lemons and flowers, and wanting a 
breakfast and a gossip. So you may imagine the 
combination. The quiet of my life at present 
seems to me like some unusual luxury, but the 
best part of it all remains—that is, a good pro¬ 
vision for all my friends, for a very long time to 
come—and more still the doubling and more of 
the price of all my pictures. So that I have good 
reason to be thankful for myself and others. 

I have just now received a present—some 
seeds of flowers from the Grarden of Grethsem- 
ane! An English lady who went to the Holy 
Land gathered them herself and brought them 
away, and she gave a few to a friend who gave 
them to me. I do so hope that they may grow 
and do well. But I care more about the terrace 
now for thinking that maybe next spring you 
may be there with me, and I mean to have it 
very pretty indeed when you come, and to plant 
all the flowers that will probably be in blossom 
then. 

We are just now preparing to go away for the 
summer, and I think we shall go first of all to 
Palazzo Rezzonico, where we went last year 
(that is, to Marina’s beautiful house near Bas- 
sano). If I had your address, I should like to 
write to you from there and tell you many things 
about the place. But I must leave you now. Do 



1880 TO 1884 383 

write soon, and meanwhile receive best love and 
a kiss from 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny/’ 


Francesca to Miss Lucy Woodbridge: 

Dear Lucy: 

After so long, I have so many, many 
things to write you. I think you must have felt 
disposed to laugh at me when you received my 
last letter. It makes me laugh, myself, now to 
think how entirely I was upset by my good for¬ 
tune though, after all, I think I was excusable, 
considering how very sudden and unexpected it 
was. My room is constantly full of people who 
come to see, not me and my work, but the book 
which Mr. Ruskin has bought. I feel sure that 
most of them would come just as soon to see his 
hat and walking-stick, if he had left them there. 
At first all this amused me, but I am now begin¬ 
ning to be a little tired of it all. 

Again I take up my pen, which I laid down 
more than a month ago, just as I was writing 
that I was growing a little tired, and my trou¬ 
bles were only just beginning! I have been so 
tired and so confused that I have not been really 
able to write to you. As soon as I began to say 
that my book was almost finished and that I 
could not make any more appointments to show 
it to any one, then indeed people did begin to 


384 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


come! And I had the strangest people, and of 
all nationalities under the sun, and speaking so 
many languages all at once that my poor little 
quiet room seemed like a second tower of Babel. 

But it is all over now, thank Providence. The 
book is gone and I have passed out of the re¬ 
flected light in which I have lived for so long, 
and relapsed into my usual obscurity, in which I 
cannot deny that I feel much more comfortable. 
I cannot tell you how I have had to work this 
past month. 

The book ought to have gone long ago, but it 
was really necessary that it should go the first of 
May at the latest. I have worked against time, 
increasing my hours from four to five, and it 
was a providence my eyes held out. But there 
have been more providences than one about this 
book. I really must tell you what a great bit of 
fortune I had about sending it to England, which 
was what I was particularly anxious about. An 
English Quaker lady came to see it, a very sweet, 
good lady, and asked me how I was going to send 
it. And when I said I did not know, to my great 
astonishment she said, in the simplest manner 
possible, that she should like to take it herself. 
When I found that the good lady was in earnest, 
I wrote to Mr. Ruskin to know what I should do, 
and as it proved that the lady was a friend of 
his, he accepted her offer. So on Monday last 
she went away with the book in her arms, for she 
would not carry it in any other way. And I sup- 


1880 TO 1884 


385 

pose that by this time it is hi London. We have 
had a great pleasure this spring in having here 
Mrs. Christopher Chadwick, who is a very old 
friend of ours, and was extremely kind when we 
were in America. Marina has invited us again 
to Bassano and I should like to be there better 
than anything else. But the spring holds back 
this year, and we cannot take the journey across 
the mountains until we have some warm weather, 
and I think by that time we shall have to be 
going to Abetone. . . 

Francesca to Miss Lucy Woodbridge: 

“ Florence, 

October 24th, 1883. 

Dear Lucy: 

I have now to thank you for two most 
delightful letters and for all that you tell me 
about Ida, and I am thankful that the little story 
seems likely to be useful. Was it not a great 
mercy that I should have been chosen to know 
that dear girl and to preserve the remembrance 
of her short, beautiful life! You shall have a 
copy of it soon now. I want you to have an 
English copy because I think that in the Amer¬ 
ican version the picture lost a good deal, though 
otherwise it is very satisfactory. As nearly as 
I can understand, some part of the book of The 
Roadside Songs is to be printed in numbers, but 
I do not know how much, nor when it is to ap- 


386 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


pear. Now about ourselves, the principal thing 
that has happened is that we have concluded to 
settle definitely in the Locanda Bonciani, where 
you last saw us. We have been here now four¬ 
teen years, and the Bonciani family have been 
always very kind and good to us, and as we like 
to spend a good deal of the year at Venice or 
Abetone, or visiting our friends, it is difficult for 
us to have a house and servants of our own. 
Mamma seems pleased to settle, though at first 
the definite giving up of America made her sad. 
This was a great sacrifice which she made for me, 
and yet I never tried to persuade her to it. But 
she cared more for my health and happiness 
than for anything or everything else. 

Now she seems to enjoy the care of arranging 
our little home and I think she would like to have 
our pictures and other things about her, and be¬ 
sides this, I need not tell you that she enjoys all 
the good fortune that has come to me. Indeed, 
as far as the honor of it goes, she cares a good 
deal more about it than I do, though I am thank¬ 
ful, more thankful than I can tell you, to know 
that the work of my life is not wasted. Mean¬ 
while, I continue to have the strangest experi¬ 
ence. Ever since Mr. Ruskin (who has been a 
great deal too good to me in every way) paid me 
the excessive and, I thought, extravagant honor 
of bringing me into his Oxford lecture, all his 
followers who, as you know, constitute almost a 
religious sect among the English, come to see me 


1880 TO 1884 


387 

as one of the sights of Florence! I think if you 
should see my comical state of embarrassment 
sometimes, you would feel a certain pity for your 
commonplace old friend thus suddenly set up on 
a pedestal. 

The other day a very beautiful young English 
girl came to my room with one or two friends. 
As I gave her my hand, she bowed almost to the 
ground, just touching the tips of my fingers, as 
if they were red-hot. And when I spoke to her, 
she made no answer and only dropped her head 
and blushed crimson. I thought the poor young 
thing was deaf and dumb, but found that she had 
been told not to speak in my overpowering pres¬ 
ence. I cannot tell you how grateful I felt to 
you for what you said in your letter, that you 
knew I was just what I always had been, for 
many people treat me as if I had grown into 
something else, which does very well to laugh at, 
but is rather distressing in reality. 

Last summer they had a Garibaldi celebration 
in the piazza with a grand procession and ban¬ 
ners, and bands of music playing the Inno di 
Garibaldi, and as it was a very imposing sight 
I went out on the balcony to look at it. While 
I was there, a number of rough-looking men in 
red neckties walked out on the balcony by my 
side and one, a thin, wild-looking man with long 
hair, waved his hand to the multitude and com¬ 
menced a speech. Dear Lucy, the balcony was 
narrow, and the Garibaldian deputation, for 


388 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


such it was, stood between me and the door. I 
could not come back into the house and there 
I had to stand. I leave you to imagine my situa¬ 
tion. Finally, when all was over, the orator, 
(who apparently mistook my distress for emo¬ 
tion caused by his eloquence) as he turned to 
depart, took my hand and pressed it with much 
feeling, then, to my unspeakable relief, took 
himself off. 

I have lately had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. 
Perkins, who is now staying with Miss Grreen- 
ough in her old home at Bellosguardo. She is 
just gomg to Athens, where she will pass the 
whiter. I have hardly left room to send love to 
your dear Aunt Rebecca, and from Mamma to 
you both, and sign myself always 

Your affectionate friend, 

Fanny.’ ’ 


CHAPTER VIII 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 

When our aunt was in Florence she had an al¬ 
most constant succession of visitors of many nation¬ 
alities, who were attracted to her by her charm and 
fascination. Even when she was between ninety and 
one hundred, she had kept her vivacity, and in her 
voice there was something almost sparkling which one 
usually associates only with youth. Mr. Ruskin writes 
to Francesca after his recovery from an illness: 

“But the Mammina does not yet know the 
feeling of not being able to do the things she 
used to. She has in her yet the exhilaration of 
youth.” 

One secret of her charm was her sympathy with all 
who came to her,—a sympathy absolutely sincere and 
without one thought of herself, rejoicing in others’ 
good fortune and happiness, and ever ready to help all 
those who came to her in trouble. We have often 
wondered how Aunt Lucia, with her limited income, 
could ever have done the countless kindnesses which 
she did for others. Not only was she interested in 
Francesca’s poor contadini and in trying to save her 
from every care and annoyance which might interfere 
with her work, but there were also many in America 
whom she was interested in helping. 

A friend told us how, when he went one Thanksgiv¬ 
ing Day to call upon two old ladies, he found them 
sitting in their little parlor with Aunt Lucia’s photo¬ 
graph in a chair between them, and drinking her 

389 


390 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


health, for it was her generosity that had given them 
such a happy Thanksgiving. Aunt Lucia and Fran¬ 
cesca were so charitable that they acquired the name 
of having great wealth. It was said that they had 
millions, whereas our aunt never possessed even a 
third of a million, and in order to give so generously 
to others, must often have gone without some little 
luxury herself. 

With children, Aunt Lucia had boundless patience 
and a great gift of entertaining them. One of the 
griefs of her life was the death of a beautiful little 
boy, one of the children of Countess Pasolini. He died 
of diphtheria in Florence, and to the very last his love 
for our aunt was most touching. He would not be 
parted from a little handkerchief of hers. He would 
hold it against his face, and it was clasped in his hand 
when he died. 

Aunt Lucia was a most unselfish and devoted wife 
and mother, but she had very decided opinions which 
our uncle and Francesca, in their almost adoring love 
and admiration for her, accepted as quite infal¬ 
lible. If Francesca always kept her sunny nature, I 
believe it was partly because she was always spoken 
to with affection and never from her father or her 
mother heard sharp or fault-finding words. The Alex¬ 
ander family life was a very happy one. 

Aunt Lucia’s book, II Libro d’Oro, was published 
when she was over ninety years of age. The following 
notice was sent to us: 

“ According to the New York Times, Mrs. Francis 
Alexander, the friend of Ruskin and the mother of 
Miss Francesca Alexander, artist and author, is the 
oldest among American women who write books, for 
she is now ninety-four years of age. Almost sixty 
years ago, her husband, a Boston portrait painter, took 
her and their daughter to Florence and there they have 
made not only a home for themselves but a special 
place in the hearts of the Florentines who love them, 



i 


A Little Italian Friend 

From a sketch by Francesca Alexander 



















































































































































. 





































































391 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 

honor them, confide in them, and relate to them the 
folk tales which the daughter illustrates so exquisitely. 
In them Ruskin found not only friends but guides to 
the religious peace lost long before. And he introduced 
the daughter’s work to the English art lovers and 
readers. But not until after his death did Mrs. Alex¬ 
ander send to an American publisher her II Libro 
d’Oro, a collection of legends of saints and saintly 
deeds. 

“ The manuscript, written in a large almost abso¬ 
lutely uniform hand, and filling a rather thick square 
quarto, might have been reproduced in facsimile and 
yet have been as legible as it now is in type, and no 
single sign of age was to be found in it or in the accom¬ 
panying letter. The translation was as idiomatic as if 
the writer had heard nothing but English all her long 
life. And yet when Messrs. Little Brown & Company 
issued the book in 1905, she was ninety years of age. 
She is, or was, when her latest letters were received, 
still active and happy, still continuing her friendly as¬ 
sociation with her neighbors, still writing occasionally, 
—an admirable example of lovely and serene old age.” 

Remarkable as this was, our aunt’s autograph books 
seem to us even more remarkable. She called them 
her scrap-books. Of these there are sixteen. They 
are very large, heavy volumes, handsomely bound in 
calf. Aunt Lucia sometimes said that she intended 
to make no more of them, but she was over ninety 
when she arranged the last two volumes. We inherited 
six of these scrap-books. Two of them contain nearly 
two hundred valuable autograph letters. Two of the 
volumes comprise a collection of letters from Sigis- 
mondo Castromediano, Duke of Caballino. 

He had been arrested and imprisoned during the 
Risorgimento, and for eleven years was fastened by 
ball and chain to Poerio, the celebrated Neapolitan 
patriot. From the time when she first went to Italy, 
our aunt was much interested in having them liber- 


392 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


ated, but at that time she did not know the influ¬ 
ential Italians whom she knew later, and could do but 
little. Gladstone tried to influence the Italian Gov¬ 
ernment to have them liberated, but was unsuccessful. 

Finally, after eleven years in prison, they escaped 
and fled to England, where they were feted and ac¬ 
claimed as heroes and martyrs. Later, when the Duke 
of Caballino was allowed to return to Italy, he was 
almost blind, owing to his long imprisonment. Aunt 
Lucia procured for him from a Boston oculist a pre¬ 
scription which greatly helped his eyes. In gratitude 
for all the interest she had taken in him, the Duke of 
Caballino sent her a-carved chest filled with valuable 
Etruscan pottery. Paul Bourget, in his Sensation 
d’ltalie, has devoted a very interesting chapter to an 
account of his visit to the Duke of Caballino in his 
ruined castle on his estate at Lecce. During his im¬ 
prisonment the castle was sacked and his property 
much injured. Paul Bourget writes his name Caval- 
lino, but in Italy it is Caballino. 

There are one hundred and seventy of his letters to 
our aunt. These are in two volumes. As he was 
nearly blind, the letters are almost illegible but on 
each opposite page are copies of them written in a 
clear hand by an Italian secretary. 

One of the books is called “ Francesca.” Many of 
the letters are about “ The Story of Ida.” If Fran¬ 
cesca's head could have been turned, it would have 
been after “ The Story of Ida ” was published. Noted 
authors wrote about it. Clergymen preached sermons 
on it. Bishop Potter took it for his subject in a ser¬ 
mon he preached in Florence. Of these letters there 
are one hundred, of which a few are included here. 

The following letter from Cardinal Manning was 
given to Francesca by Mr. Ruskin: 


393 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 

“Archbishop’s House, 
Westminster, S. W., 
May 28, 1883. 

My dear Mr. Ruskin: 

I have waited in the hope of thanking 
you in words for The Story of Ida . It is simply 
beautiful, like the Fioretti di S. Francesco . 
Such flowers can grow in one soil alone. They 
can be found only in the garden of faith over 
which the world of light hangs visibly and is 
more intensely seen by the poor and the pure in 
heart, than by the rich, or the learned, or the 
men of culture. 

The Story of Ida has already given joy to one 
who has been suffering greatly. I hope you are 
again in London and will come as usual. 

Believe me, always, 

Yours affectionately, 

H. E., Card: Archbp.” 

To our aunt from Oliver Wendell Holmes: 

“Beverly Farms, Mass. 
August 3rd, 1884. 

My dear Mrs. Alexander: 

Amelia reached home on the 26th of July, 
a week ago yesterday, well and anticipating a 
joyous meeting. Her oldest brother met her on 
the wharf and had to tell her of the death of 
Edward, the youngest of our three children. It 
was a sad greeting, and she found us, of course, 
deeply sorrowing, yet greatly comforted to get 


394 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

her back with us. Edward was as well as usual 
on the 16th, the day when she sailed. But on the 
evening of the 18th he complained of difficulty 
of breathing, and after getting relief to some ex¬ 
tent, seemed to be quiet. But in the morning he 
was found lifeless, lying as if just asleep in the 
position in which he was left. 

He was a general favorite and is a great loss 
to us all. 

Amelia did not forget her messages from you, 
and I received the package containing the very 
interesting relics which you have so kindly sent 
me. The little box made from the wood of the 
Constitution —‘Old Ironsides ’■—is a precious 
heirloom. A good many school children have 
spouted my ‘Ay, tear the tattered ensign down/ 
and I have sometimes had the credit of saving 
the old ship when it was proposed to take her to 
pieces. 

Amelia (Mrs. Sargent) is very well and full 
of manifold experiences. She tells me that you 
were very kind to her, shows me The Story of 
Ida, which is infinitely touching and ought to 
go into the Acta Sanctorum . What almost di¬ 
vine loveliness in that little portrait! I have not 
yet seen the large one which is as yet in Boston. 

With Amelia’s love and our warmest thanks 
for your kind attention to her, I am, dear Mrs. 
Alexander, 

Faithfully yours, 

Oliver Wendell Holmes.” 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 395 

The two following letters to Francesca are from Mr. 
Thomas G. Appleton: 


“Nahant, 

August 10th, 1877. 

Dear Miss Alexander: 

I visited with a party of friends today 
Mrs. Agassiz, and in the name of all of us I can¬ 
not resist the pleasure of telling you how much 
we are delighted with Mrs. Shaw’s exquisite 
book. 

You have made the pen mightier than the 
burin and make us to not miss color at all either. 
The book breathes of Florence and Italian life, 
and I am proud to have such a countrywoman. 

When I remember the little girl sitting on 
your father’s doorstep so many years ago, I can 
hardly believe you have grown to do such fine 
things. How proud your parents must be of you, 
as indeed we all are, and a famous poet has 
praised you in verse which I hope you have seen 
—Mr. Lowell. 

He has gone to Spain as ambassador, but be¬ 
fore he returns, I daresay will manage to pay 
you a visit in Florence. Does your father ever 
paint now? Every now and then one of his 
strong works comes to the surface, and his old 
friends rejoice at the admiration it excites. Kind 
remembrances to your parents. 

Very truly yours, 

T. G. Appleton.” 


396 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

“Nahant, 

July 24, 1883. 

Dear Miss Alexander: 

The beautiful book, with its enchanting 
frontispiece, came to me today and though I have 
only glanced through it, I do not delay a moment 
to return you my thanks. I had heard of your 
romantic and flattering adventures with Mr. 
Ruskin from Una Felton, and I had been so 
delighted, as you may remember, by Mrs. Shaw’s 
book, that I was thoroughly glad that you were 
good enough to send me this little memoir. I 
have lived enough in Italy to love the gracious, 
friendly nature of the nice Italians. I do not 
forget at Rome my landlady’s daughter, with her 
gentle ‘E permesso V as she came to see me. And 
you know the Florentine peasantry, about which 
I have always heard such compliments; their 
self-respect, dignity, and beautiful language. 

Remember me most kindly to your mother. Is 
Boston never again to welcome either of you? 
You know how cordial it would be, and how 
proud we are that you have won a sacred place 
in the opinions of the best, and how glad we 
should be to acknowledge it. 

Yours sincerely, 

T. Gr. Appleton.” 


397 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 
To Francesca from John G. Whittier: 

“Oak Knoll, Danvers, Mass. 

8th Mo. 21, 1883. 

My dear Friend: 

How shall I thank thee for the beautiful 
Story of Ida! By some mistake the volume in¬ 
tended for me was given to Mr. C. A. Whittier 
of Boston, but before I received thy letter I had 
read the sweet and tender story under the pines 
by the Asquam Lake on a lovely Sabbath morn¬ 
ing, the holy serenity of which seemed in entire 
sympathy with the young girUs ‘ peace that pass- 
eth understanding.’ The book will, I verily 
think, do more good than all the volumes of the¬ 
ological controversy and speculation which have 
appeared for half a century. Everybody is read¬ 
ing it, and it will be reaching and melting human 
hearts long after the writer shall have joined her 
beloved young friend. I enclose a little sonnet 
written after reading it. 

I suppose thee and thy dear Mother are still 
in the mountains but I send this to your address 
in the city. I owe thy Mother a letter but I can¬ 
not write much in the great heat which is now 
upon us, and indeed I cannot write at any time 
without suffering. I am overwhelmed daily with 
letters from strangers and find it quite impos¬ 
sible to answer them all. I hear, of course, of 
thy wonderful book and of its purchase by John 
Ruskin and of its reception in England. I en- 


398 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


joyed the privilege of seeing the one sent to this 
country some years ago, by the favor of dear 
Annie Field, at whose home it was for a day or 
two. How glad I am that in thy case the rare 
gift of genius is consecrated to the glory of Him 
who gave it and to the welfare of His children. 

Give my best love to thy good Mother. I wish 
I could see you both once more, but I hold you in 
daily remembrance. Last winter I spent in your 
old quarters at the Winthrop House and con¬ 
stantly recalled you. I was there to be near my 
sick brother, the last of our family, who passed 
away in January, leaving me alone. But God 
has given me dear friends and many blessings, 
more than I deserve. 

I am very gratefully thy friend, 

John G. Whittier.” 

THE “ STORY OF IDA ” 

Weary of jangling voices never stilled, 

The sceptic’s sneer, the bigot’s hate, the din 
Of clashing texts, the webs of creed men spin 
Round simple truth, the children grown who build 
With gilded cards their New Jerusalem, 

Draping the awful mystery of the soul 
With sacerdotal tailoring, alb and stole, 

I turn, with glad and grateful heart, from them 
To the sweet story of the Florentine 
Immortal in her blameless maidenhood, 
Beautiful as God’s angels and as good: 

Feeling that life, even now, may be divine 
With love no wrong can ever change to hate, 

Nor sin make less than all-compassionate! 

John G. Whittier. 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 


399 


From Mr. Robert Sewell to Miss Lilly Cleveland: 

‘ 6 Oxford, 

December, 1884. 

Dr. Acland dined at the Wardens’ on Thurs¬ 
day night, and sat next to me. We got into con¬ 
versation about various things and I asked him 
whether he could tell me where Miss Alex¬ 
ander’s pictures were, that I might go and see 
them. He said that Ruskin was in Oxford and 
he would give me a letter to him, since he and 
the Doctor were old friends of thirty years’ 
standing. I demurred on the ground of intrud¬ 
ing, but Dr. A. insisted warmly and kindly, and I 
could not refuse. On Friday morning came Dr. 
A’s letter to me, enclosing one to Ruskin. Kind¬ 
ness personified was his to me. 

I went at eleven to Mr. Ruskin’s house, was 
shown into a dining-room, sent up Dr. A’s 
letter, and waited. A moment, and he came in I 
Imagine my feelings. I began talking of Dr. 
A. and his kindness, then of you and Miss Alex¬ 
ander. 

He was as nice as possible, so gentle and win¬ 
ning in his ways, and presently asked if I would 
like to see Miss Alexander’s drawings. Of 
course I expressed my desire to do so, and he 
took me upstairs to his bedroom and set me 
down, with a chair facing me, on which to show 
me the sheets. 

And then he began, ‘The portrait in Ida 


400 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


is charming, but I am going to show you, to begin 
with, a picture which embodies all her style in 
its highest characteristics.’ 

He had four, altogether, that I saw at his 
house, and at the art schools attached to the 
Taylor Institution, I saw ten sheets fully framed 
and set up, and twenty-five carefully mounted 
and placed in a cabinet. At the first sight of a 
most lovely 24-length of a Tuscan peasant 
woman, with a most exquisitely finished distance 
and foreground, which was the first picture Mr. 
Ruskin showed me, I fairly gasped. I said, ‘Is 
that the original pen-and-ink? It looks like a 
steel engraving.’ He replied, ‘I thought it would 
take your breath away! ’ 

And then he began upon them. I cannot tell 
you all he said. I have not the time, and I could 
not remember all his own words, but all he said 
centered round this criticism: ‘Perfect expres¬ 
sion of perfect feelings! The highest emotion 
mankind is capable of expressed with the high¬ 
est art!’ 

He showed me the four he had in his own room 
and pointed out all their beauties and then went 
downstairs and wrote a letter for me to the cur¬ 
ator of the art schools, desiring him to show me 
all that there were in Oxford. 

I went there this morning with Miss Blach- 
ford and Violet, and we saw them all most care¬ 
fully. While we were looking at them, Mr. Rus¬ 
kin himself came and stood behind us and 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 401 

talked, picture by picture, of their wonderful 
beauty and the lessons they teach. Dr. Acland 
too looked in on us. Altogether, we had a rare 
treat that I shall never forget. Ruskin is quite 
eaten up with enthusiasm about the pictures, and 
seems never to tire of talking of them. I never 
met with more kindness.” 

Extracts of a letter from Miss Lilly Cleveland to 
Francesca: 

“I have my set of the dear Roadside Songs 
complete. We gave a set to Uncle George. He 
is perfectly delighted with them and I enclose 
his postal card to show you what he did with 
the St. Christopher. . . . 

Lilly C.” 

One of Miss Lilly Cleveland’s uncles was Bishop 
Doane of the Protestant Episcopal Church. His 
brother was G. W. Doane, Catholic Vicar-General of 
New Jersey, who wrote the following: 

“I read the legend of St. Christopher, Ed- 
wige’s comments and all, out loud in the church 
this morning at the High Mass, with a very few 
prefatory remarks! 

G. W. D. 

Newark, November 15th, 1885.” 


402 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

To our aunt from Mr. Ruskin’s cousin, Mrs. Arthur 
Severn: 


“Brantwood, 

The 28th of March, 1887. 

Beloved Mammina: 

On the other side you will find part of a 
letter from, and part of a letter to, Oliver Wen¬ 
dell Holmes, which your Figlio read to me today, 
and I asked leave to copy the same, which was 
readily granted; for I feel sure you will be 
pleased and amused with what is said on both 
sides! I’m having such a lovely time here, and 
am ever your devoted and grateful 

Figlia 

Copy of part of a letter from Oliver Wendell Holmes 
to John Ruskin: 


“Boston, 

March 3rd, 1887. 

. . . My visit to England was full of de¬ 

light and there was little to regret except the 
failure of our intended visit to you. You have 
been greatly called to my remembrance by my 
receiving The Peace of Polissena from our old 
friend Francesca. We had The Story of Ida be¬ 
fore, and read it (as everybody did who had any 
sense of what is beautiful in the divine side of 
human nature) with intense interest. 

This new and more cheerful story brings a ray 
of Italian sunshine into our Northern home. 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 403 

Francesca is, as you know, one of our Boston 
products or educts, softened and sweetened by 
Southern influences. The relations you have 
formed and maintained with Francesca have 
drawn a great deal of attention to her, naturally 
first for your own sake and then for her own.” 

Part of Ruskin’s letter in answer to Oliver Wendell 
Holmes’: 


“. • • But I am especially glad of the occa¬ 

sion of your letter in The Peace of Polissena, 
for truly I think there will be prettier pictures 
of Francesca herself in the book of Folks 1 as it 
goes on than have been given of her yet. 

I like your claiming her for a Boston product 
or educt! 

She is a lovely Florentine Christian who has 
had the sense to fly from that city of Destruction 
in which it was ordained that she should be born 
—that she might be thus rescued.” 

Extracts from the Dowager Countess of Dalhousie’s 
letters: 


“Nov. 6th, 1882. 

“. . . Thanks for telling me the story of 

Ruskin and Miss Alexander—it is so delightful! 
I am glad he is the purchaser of her great book 
so that now her fame will be sounded as it ought, 
and she might be the founder of a school, like 
Giotto! I should call her the 'Gentile Fabriano’ 

i Christ ’s Folk in the Apennihe. 


404 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


of today. . . . How I should like to see that 
last of Miss Alexander’s, of our Saviour speak¬ 
ing to the Samaritana! My only and difficult 
chance will be by making acquaintance some day 
with Ruskin and gaining his good will. . . 

In Villa Serbelloni at Bellagio on Lake Como we met 
the delightful Scotch author, Mr. Samuel Crockett, and 
his charming wife. When he heard we were on our 
way to Florence, he asked us to tell our cousin that he 
had just been visiting Mr. Ruskin and that he was 
much better, and then he said, “ Will you take a mes¬ 
sage to your cousin from me? Will you tell her how 
beloved her Story of Ida is in Scotland? And a hand¬ 
somely bound copy of it was the first present I gave 
my wife after we were engaged.” 

My sister and I spent many seasons in Florence, 
that is, the springs and autumns. When the cold 
winds began to sweep down the Arno late in the 
autumn, we went to the Riviera or to Naples for the 
winter, returning to Florence early in the spring. We 
were in Florence at the time of the great earthquake, 
which did much damage. The walls of the Foundling 
Hospital were cracked open. The cross on the church 
of Santa Maria Novella was bent over. Every public 
carriage in Florence was taken, for many Florentines 
would not stay in the houses and spent the night in 
public carriages. When we went to see Aunt Lucia 
the next day, she said that Florence would never seem 
the same again. The first time that we left Florence 
for Venice, we received this note from Francesca, and 
one of the luncheon baskets which the Alexanders 
sometimes sent to friends who were leaving Florence: 

“Dear May: 

I am sending yon a few little things for 
your supper in the cars. I could not go out, and 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 405 

this was the best bundle I could make up in the 

house. You will excuse the want of nice paper, 

ribbon, and so forth. There is also a cushion for 

our dear Lucia to use on the journey, and I hope 

she will keep on using it until it wears out. 

Good-bye, and God bless you both and give you a 

happy journey. Much love from Mamma, and 
from 

Your affectionate cousin, 

Fanny. 

Edwige says she will pray for you this eve¬ 
ning that the journey may go well, and you 
know that we shall do the same.” 

The following letter is from Miss Susie Beever, one 
of the two sisters who were such dear old friends of 
Mr. Ruskin. The little book, Hortus Inclusus, is a 
collection of some of his charming letters to them. 
The Misses Beever would not accept any proceeds from 
the sale of the book. Neither would Mr. Ruskin, who 
said that the letters were theirs and belonged to them. 
But they insisted that the letters were his, as he had 
written them. Finally, they all agreed to send the 
money to Francesca for her poor people. 

“Coniston, Ambleside, 
May 21st, 1884. 

My dear Mrs. Alexander: 

Will you forgive me for so long delaying 
to thank you for your letter, so full of kindness 
and sympathy. I am truly sorry to have seemed 
so ungrateful, and you have had deep sorrow, so 
you know how to feel for me! I hope dear Miss 
Alexander is well, very busy as usual, no doubt. 


406 MEMOIRS OP THE ALEXANDERS 


Mr. Ruskin has given me the first number of 
Wayside Songs . What a beautiful book it will 
be! I think it will have a very large circulation. 

Our weather is still cool. For the first time 
this year I went into the garden for a short time 
yesterday. All looked so lovely. The sweet nar¬ 
cissus is in flower, and many other pretty things. 

Our dear friend Mr. Ruskin came to see me on 
Saturday. I think I never knew him looking 
better, with a nice, quiet cheerfulness. He had 
rowed himself across the lake in his safe boat, 
4 The Jumpy Jenny.’ The water was rough, but 
the wind in his favor. Will you give my love to 
dear Anna Lloyd? This is a poor little note, but 
my eyes still have a strong objection to writing. 
With love to dear Miss Alexander and yourself, 
believe me 

Yours affectionately and gratefully, 

S. Beever.” 


Francesca to Miss Lucy Woodbridge: 

“Abetone, 

August 13th, 1887. 

Dear Lucy: 

Did I ever answer your last letter ? After 
the losses of the winter and spring, I was not 
good for much for a long time. I wrote you, did 
I not ? how I lost Enrichetta Nerli in April. My 
life is now sadly changed, for nearly all those 
friends who were so dear to me are gone—Mari- 



OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 407 

anna, Gigina, Angelina, Enrichetta—all within 
so short a time. Marina and Sylvia I can see for 
only a short part of the year, and of all the old 
circle of friends once so united I have only Gian- 
nina now left in Florence. She and I cling much 
together, as you may imagine. And now I have 
written you quite enough about my troubles. 

The feste at Florence for the completion of the 
Duomo were very grand, but of course I did not 
see much of them, only what one could not help 
seeing walking about the streets. For I went 
nowhere. But the Piazza del Duomo all dressed 
with flowers was one of the loveliest sights that 
ever I saw. The new front of the Duomo is beau¬ 
tiful and is as nearly worthy of the rest as any¬ 
thing made in this century can be. Some of the 
statues are very fine, and altogether I think it 
the grandest modern work that ever I saw. It 
was to me very touching to walk about Florence 
in those days, for the people, after all, are the 
descendants of those who built the Duomo and 
made the city so beautiful. And they have not 
lost all their greatness of nature—for once, pos¬ 
sibly for the last time, the old spirit blazed up. 
The completion of the old church was a thing 
that went to everybody’s heart. Even the hotel 
servants asked leave to bring down the plants 
from my terrace and arrange them about the 
door, that Albergo Bonciani might also be dec¬ 
orated in honor of the Madonna del Fiore. 

Great families hung out their family banners, 


408 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

and the banners of many families long since 
dead, who in their time did much for Florence, 
were hung from the palaces where they had once 
lived. Shopkeepers hung out the ancient ban¬ 
ners of their respective trades. 

Good-bye, and give my love to all the friends 
who remember me, especially dear Rose, whom I 
can never forget, and receive an abbraccio di 
cuore from 

Your ever affectionate 

Fanny.’ ’ 


From our aunt to our mother: 

“Bassano, 

October 27th, 1888. 

Dear Mary: 

Many thanks for your letter. I am glad 
to know you are all well and safely home again. 
We, too, are expecting to go home in a few days, 
if indeed a few rooms in a hotel deserve the 
name, and at least I shall be glad to be quiet and 
settled for a little while. The autumn has been 
beautiful here, just a little snow on the tops of 
the mountains, and mild, sunny days. The air 
has been so clear that the other morning, just 
as the sun rose, Fan saw plainly a mountain near 
Trieste, 170 miles away. I have been trying to 
write before, but when we are making a visit my 
time is not my own and lately has been less so 
than usual, for Mr. Ruskin, who has been in 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 409 

Switzerland, was coming into Italy to see us, and 
Marina was good enough to invite him here, and 
he came and stayed nine days, and there was 
always something going on: long excursions in 
the daytime, and often company, and always 
music in the evenings. The family did not seem 
pleased if I did not join them, so I am behind¬ 
hand with everything, and only hope I shall not 
be hurried about the packing. . . .” 

Francesca to Miss Lucy Woodbridge: 

“ Florence, 
December, 1888. 

Dear Lucy: 

I cannot remember when I last wrote you, 
nor whether I answered the last but one of your 
letters. 

I have a great deal to be thankful for in my 
life —everything in my own home, for the ' Mam - 
mina’ is wonderfully well, though I feared much 
the effect upon her of losing her life-long friend, 
Margaret Tucker. It seems as if she and I were 
destined to see the departure of nearly all those 
whom we love, and the effect of it is to draw us 
almost too close together. I shudder sometimes 
when I think that, however long delayed, the 
parting day must come even for us and then 
may the Lord help the one who shall be left be¬ 
hind! But i sufficient tmto the day is the evil 

thereof! * 

Now I must tell you something of what has 



410 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


happened to us. I think that I wrote you from 
Cortina, where we spent the summer in a very 
beautiful and singular country which, if I am 
not mistaken, I described to you so minutely that 
I will not now begin again. Then we went to 
Bassano to our dear friends, (who spoil me in 
the most unprincipled manner) and while there 
we had an unexpected pleasure in a visit from 
Mr. Ruskin who, being in Switzerland, came 
down to Italy on purpose to see us. When Ma¬ 
rina heard that he was coming, she very kindly 
invited him to her house, where he stayed for 
nine days and made himself as pleasant as pos¬ 
sible, winning the hearts of all the Bassano peo¬ 
ple by his kind ways. He struck me as looking 
better in health than when I last saw him. 

Dear Lucy, what must you have been thinking 
of me! I began this letter last spring, and left 
writing it in consequence of the growing trouble 
about my eyes. There seems to have been a bless¬ 
ing on this year, for Mamma has improved very 
greatly in health, and if you should see her you 
would say that she has grown younger and not 
older. So I feel as if I ought to be giving thanks 
all the time instead of complaining. 

But I know you want me to finish what I was 
saying about Mr. Ruskin. He could not have 
been kinder and pleasanter than he was. His 
greatest pleasure was in listening to Silvia’s 
very beautiful music, and she was extremely 
kind and passed all her evenings in playing to 


411 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 

him. The children attached themselves to him 
in a wonderful way and little Bebo, in the eve¬ 
nings when the music was going on, would nestle 
up to his side, lay his head against his shoulder, 
and go comfortably to sleep. When he went 
away, he gave Edwige a letter directed ‘All’ 
Edwige nostra ’ which she gave me to open and 
read to her. It contained fifty francs with a few 
very kind words. But it was a sad parting for 
me, for the feeling was strong in my mind that 
we should not meet again, and oh, Lucy, how 
good he has been to me all these years! He could 
not have been any kinder to me if I had been his 
daughter, or sister, as he always used to call me. 
He is pretty well now, but feeble, and not as I 
could wish to see him. 

Now, as for what we have been doing for the 
last year, I have little enough to tell you. Last 
spring Mamma was not well and grew thin, and 
it was a very anxious time for me. But we went 
to Venice about the first of June, where she im¬ 
mediately began to mend in quite a miraculous 
way; and this winter she is stronger and better 
than for several years past. 

From Venice we went to a pretty little old 
town among the Dolomites, Primiero, a really 
lovely place, but so inaccessible that I do not 
think we shall go there again. Then in the 
autumn to Bassano, as usual, where we spent 
nearly two months, and then came home and set¬ 
tled down for the winter. I was not so happy 


412 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


this year in Bassano as in times past, owing to 
the fact that my dear Pierino was studying to 
pass an examination, a thing which I greatly 
dislike and disapprove of. My attention has 
been called lately to the present cruel and most 
inefficient system of schools here in Italy, where 
a race of pale, sharp, cigar-smoking, spectacled 
young people is growing up, as different as pos¬ 
sible from the beautiful and vigorous young 
Italians of thirty years ago. Now Lucy, dear, 
I suppose I must leave you, for if I go on I shall 
be interrupted again and no one knows then 
when the letter will be finished. Good-bye, it is 
growing dark. Mamma sends you much love, 
and I am always 

Your loving old friend, 

Fanny.” 


“ Florence, 

November 23rd, 1893. 

Dearest Lucy: 

I cannot tell you with how much pleasure 
I received your long, affectionate, and most de¬ 
lightful letter. This summer passed with us 
much as usual. We went first to Venice in June 
and passed the month there. I always enjoy that 
month in Venice. It is less spoiled by modern 
improvements than other Italian towns. I some¬ 
times think that S. Francesco, who once lived on 
an island near there, has left his beloved Ma¬ 
donna povereta to look after the city. And she 


413 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 

takes good care of it. If ever the Venetians 
should grow rich, the first thing they would do 
would be to spoil and disfigure their beauti¬ 
ful city and turn it into a poor imitation of 
Paris. 

Then in Venice for one month I keep house, 
which I like very much, in a very splendid old 
palace with its front adorned with porphyry and 
verde antico, and with a pretty garden like some 
of those in the Bible—full of roses and cypress, 
pomegranates, vines, and fig trees. But I am 
afraid that an American housekeeper would be 
rather horrified at the sight of my kitchen, 
though it has certainly a fine view of the Grand 
Canal, for there is not even a chimney, but only 
a hole in the wall where a portion of the smoke 
goes out and where also the cat comes in. But 
we find ourselves quite happy with the dilapi¬ 
dated magnificences and small inconveniences of 
our abode, which at least has not the fault of any 
close connection with the present century. When 
you write, do tell me something of dear Rose 
Hooper. Only the other day, among some of my 
treasures, I found one of her golden baby curls 
which I have kept ever since I was a child my¬ 
self. 

Good-bye, dear Lucy; I do not ask you not to 
forget me, because I know you never will, but do 
write to me soon. Meanwhile, I am always 

Your loving old friend, 

Fanny Alexander.” 



414 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 
Miss Sarah Orne Jewett to our aunt: 

“ South Berwick, Me., 
Jan. 22nd, 1902. 

My dear Cousin: 

I think that I have put off writing to you 
only because I wished so much to have ‘ a good 
talk.’ The chapter keeps growing, of things that 
I wished to tell you. This letter must make a 
beginning! In the first place, I am sending you 
a copy of a story I have long been writing. I 
have had a dream of keeping some of the old 
people and old stories of this dear town in re- 
membrance, and you will find the story begin¬ 
ning at Hamilton House—your grandmother’s 
house—and, I hope, like it the better! I put it 
into Colonel Hamilton’s earlier unmarried years. 
How I should have liked to run to you with 
questions while I was writing the story, and how 
I should fairly love to talk it over with you now. 
You will like to hear that some friends of ours—• 
Bostonians of these later days—have put Ham¬ 
ilton House back into something like its former 
splendor. They live here from April to Novem¬ 
ber and are very dear friends indeed,—Mrs. 
George Tyson and her daughter, and they keep 
a photograph of your grandmother’s portrait 
(which Aunt Mary Bell got for them from Lucia 
Swett) on the drawing-room mantelpiece. 

I have made a delightful visit to dear Aunt 
Mary Long—your ‘Mary Olivia’—and you can’t 



415 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 

think how eagerly she asked me all sorts of affec¬ 
tionate things about you and begged me to give 
you her dearest love and to say with what pleas¬ 
ure she clung to the remembrance of your early 
friendship. She was never dearer nor sweeter. 
We are fortunate (aren't we?) who used to hear 
Aunt Mary sing the old Scottish and English 
songs. The house looks just as it always has 
since I can first remember it, and the high teas 
are just as good!! Sometimes when I find your 
old friends' hearts so warm with remembrance, 
and how much they wish for you, I wish I had 
made you into a nice tidy bundle with white 
paper and a pretty string, and brought you right 
home with me. I saw Ida Mason the other day; 
I see her and Ellen often when I am staying in 
town with Mrs. Fields. 

I mean to go to Jamaica Plain to see how the 
Swetts are, just as soon as I possibly can, and 
then I shall write to you again. I keep your 
silver pencil close at hand and your coin pin, and 
I keep many loving thoughts of you in my heart. 
Dear friends! Dear Mrs. Alexander and dear 
Francesca! I love you and kiss you both, in my 
thoughts, and wish myself back in that dear 
corner of your drawing-room which I remember 
so often. May God bless you and keep you, and 

please do not forget me. 

Yours most affectionately, 

Sarah O. Jewett." 


416 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

Francesca’s friend, Miss Lucy Woodbridge, married 
late in life a widower, Mr. Selden. Consequently, after 
1903 Francesca’s letters to her are addressed to “ Mrs. 
Selden.” 


“ Florence, 21 Piazza S. Maria Novella, 
February 12th, 1903. 

Dearest Lucy: 

Over and over again during these years 
that have gone by I have begun letters to you 
which I have never finished. So now you will 
be wanting to hear something about us. First 
of all, I have the greatest of all earthly blessings 
in Mamma’s continued good health. She is really 
wonderful, looks no older than I, and has kept 
her sight and hearing unimpaired and (what is 
more than all) her youthful spirits, and the full 
strength of her mind. She makes everybody’s 
wants and troubles her own and is a blessing to 
all about her, and she will reach her ninetieth 
year next spring. May the Lord keep her long! 
She takes long walks every day and in all 
weathers, leads a life the reverse of self-indul¬ 
gent, and does no end of work, and bears every¬ 
body’s burdens. So the best is left to me still. 
For the rest, I have lost nearly all my friends. 
The death of my Edwige, faithful friend and 
companion of forty years, was a heavy blow and 
has much changed my life. Marina is much aged 
now and makes me anxious, and her daughter 
Silvia has never recovered from the death of 
her last son Pierino, who was an angel on earth 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 417 

and far too good for this world. She makes the 
best of a sad and desolate life. 

One other trouble of mine will perhaps make 
you smile, but it is very real to me—the deface¬ 
ment, modernization, and vulgarization of my 
beautiful Florence, which I have loved more 
than it is safe to love anything in this world, 
and which is now the victim of civilization and 
progress. But I will not write more or I shall 
never end. Good-bye. Mamma sends dear love. 
Please remember me kindly and respectfully to 
your husband. And you, dear Lucy, try to 
keep your patience with your rather unsatisfac¬ 
tory but most loving old friend, 

Fanny Alexander/* 

Our aunt to our sister, Mrs. C. H. Vinton: 

“ Florence, Italy, 
February 21st, 1906. 

Dearest Lily: 

I have so much to thank you for that I 
hardly know where to begin. First, for your 
charming letter. I am thankful that you are, as 
I suppose, safe and well in Florida, and I hope 
that hereafter you will always leave Boston for 
the South before November at the latest. We 
thank you very much for the beautiful cards, 
and most of all for the priceless treasure of the 
copy of the love letter. I am afraid the lady 
trifled a little with the honest heart. I wonder 


418 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


if he had her in his mind when he wrote, ‘For of 
all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are 
these, “It might have been.” ’ Dear love from 
us both to you both. 

Your loving 

Aunt L. A.” 

The letter to which Aunt Lucia refers was given to 
our sister, Mrs. Vinton, by her friend Mrs. Laurin 
Martin. Mr. Whittier’s early love, to whom he wrote 
the letter, was an aunt of Mrs. Martin and of the 
Reverend Henry Hovey, who was so long rector of 
St. John’s Church in Portsmouth, N. H. Aunt Lucia 
once, in writing to Mr. Whittier, mentioned an article 
she had read in some paper which seemed to refer to 
his devotion to Miss Mary Emerson Smith. Mr. Whit¬ 
tier, in his answer to our aunt’s letter, said, “ Yes, it 
did rather squint that way.” 

Aunt Lucia was delighted to have this copy of Mr. 
Whittier’s love letter, which we have permission to 
publish here: 

John Greenleaf Whittier to Miss Mary Emerson 
Smith: 


“Boston, 23d, 5th month, 1829. 

Miss Smith: 

This is not the first time I have attempted 
to write you. I have written and rewritten and 
as often destroyed my fruitless efforts. Why, 
you will ask me, was this ? Simply because I was 
afraid you had ceased to be the good kind- 
hearted girl, the generous friend and confidant 
which you once were. I have always esteemed 
you highly; fondly perhaps; but let that pass, 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 419 

yon have forgotten ‘Auld Lang Syne,' and why 
should I be foolish enough to cherish an idle 
dream of my boyhood, a yearning for that con¬ 
fidence and friendship which I fear has no 
existence in real life. No! I have shaken off 
every feeling of a tender nature, and I would 
ask nothing more than the friendship of the 
cold-hearted world. Can you deny me this? 
Enough of sentimentality, I have done with 
it. 

The blessed hopes I have cherished have gone; 
all gone; and memory treasures up with a 
miserly fondness the bright things of the past. 
Do you suppose you are not included among 
them ? Depend upon it you are among the fore¬ 
most. 

But why do I say this ? Why do I write this ? 
The very absurdity of the thing has hitherto 
prevented me from seeking your correspondence, 
much as I have desired it. I know very well that 
you will consider my proposal as a wild one, 
but do remember that in complying with it, 
you are conferring a great favor on your 
petitioner. 

They say, and I listen to it with a mingled 
feeling of pleasure and pain, that your hand has 
been plighted to another; to a worthy and de¬ 
serving gentleman. God grant that happiness 
may attend you both, but it is idle, perfectly so, 
for those who know so much of each other as we 
do, to affect to misunderstand each other. Mary! 


420 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


I have loved you passionately; deeply; and you, 
if there is any faith in woman’s words, you have 
not hated me. 

Do you remember that last walk we had on the 
banks of the Merrimac when the moon was look¬ 
ing down upon us? Ay! and on a hundred 
others. They are living in my memory, every 
clasp of the hand, every look of kindness is re¬ 
membered, cherished. I hate, from the bottom 
of my heart, coldness and insensibility. An ice¬ 
berg glittering in the moonlight may be beauti¬ 
ful in perspective, but knowing its frozen slum¬ 
ber, would one wish to approach it? The lake, 
dark and silent and waveless, may lull the wind 
into a pleasant tranquillity, but it will not rouse 
up the heart’s torrent in the delirium of joy, as 
it does when the wind and the sunshine are 
playing on its bosom. 

I need not repeat that I value your friendship, 
admire your disposition, and love you as a 
brother should love his sister; you know all this; 
you have known my devotion and such, too, as 
none other will ever exact of me; you are the 
beau ideal of my imagination, and yet I ask 
nothing of you but your friendship, nothing 
more. Whatever may be our situation in life, in 
weal or woe, nothing shall interrupt it on my 
part, and from what I know of you I am sure 
that you will not forget an old friend. Do I ask 
anything extravagant ? anything which you can¬ 
not comply with? God forbid that any request 


OUR AUNT AND HER BOOKS 


421 


of mine should disturb you, but I could wish you 
to write me often and frankly, just as you would 
write to any of your associates. You will be a 
good girl in this, as you have been in everything, 
won’t you? 

Did you receive the last Manufacturer ? The 
article entitled ‘ Sappho’ was written after vis¬ 
iting the Athenaeum Gallery of Paintings in this 
city. The painting of Sappho is beautiful, for 
it resembles you. I wish you were here. I have 
become somewhat acquainted here in Boston, 
principally with our modern literati; I have a 
thousand things to say to you, but not until I 
hear from you and glance my eyes over the well- 
known characters of your handwriting. I will 
tell you about the fashions; everything and any¬ 
thing you wish to hear of. 

Your sincere friend, 

John G. Whittier.” 


Whittier’s poems, “ My Playmate,” “ Memories,” 
and “ The First Flowers ” referred to Miss Mary Emer¬ 
son Smith. She married Judge Thomas of Kentucky. 
During the Civil War, General Morgan and a com¬ 
panion who had escaped with him from the Federal 
Prison at Columbus, Ohio, went to the Thomas 

home. 

Mrs. Thomas furnished them with horses. Her 
house was soon surrounded by Federal soldiers, who 
searched it thoroughly. After General Morgan and his 
companions had reached a place of safety, they turned 
the horses loose and these returned to their home on 
the Thomas estate. 


422 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 
Francesca to Mrs. Selden: 

“Florence, 

March 5th, 1907. 

Dearest Lucy: 

I am glad at last to find myself beginning 
a letter to you, even though not by my own hand. 
In our own house, we are all well. Mamma in a 
few weeks will have reached the good age of 
ninety-three years, and she is still, it seems to 
me, about as young as ever, going out in all 
weathers, bearing everybody’s burdens, enjoy¬ 
ing the company of her friends, and seeing en¬ 
tirely to all the business affairs with a clearness 
and judgment which we younger people may well 
envy. ... I wish that you could see Mamma 
now! She holds her own so wonderfully! I do 
not think you would find her very much changed 
if you were to see her again. She has kept her 
sight and her hearing and all her old vivacity 
and brightness, and still thinks for everybody 
and does for everybody. She has had two hard 
years with my accident, but she has borne them 
well. I think I ought to be the most thankful 
woman in the world. I myself am gradually 
recovering and begin to walk about the house 
pretty well with a stick. I am always what I 
was when we were children, and have been ever 
since, 

Your ever loving friend, 

Francesca Alexander.’’ 


CHAPTER IX 


OUR LAST VISIT TO OUR AUNT AND FRANCESCA 

In the autumn of 1909, my sister and I went to 
Madeira intending to spend the winter there, but we 
decided, after a few weeks on that beautiful island, to 
take the first steamer to Gibraltar and go from there 
to Nice by way of Genoa. The first evening at Gibral¬ 
tar, when we went into the hotel dining-room, we saw, 
at one of the tables, our cousins, Mrs. Edward Hallo- 
well and Miss Charlotte Hallowell, who had just come 
from Spain and were on their way to Florence to spend 
the winter with Aunt Lucia and Francesca. We all 
went on the same steamer to Genoa, where we sepa¬ 
rated, our cousins going to Florence, and my sister and 
I going the next day to Nice, where we passed the 
winter. Early in the spring we went to Florence. 

Aunt Lucia and Francesca had met with serious 
trouble since we were last in Florence. Francesca had 
fallen and broken her hip. After this, she had a long 
illness, and lay for over a year and a half in a state of 
lethargy, knowing little of what was going on about 
her. It was a sad time for our aunt, who was then 
over ninety-three years old. She bore this trial in the 
same brave spirit in which she always took all trials 
that came to her, believing them to be the will of her 
Heavenly Father. All through Francesca’s illness, she 
took care of her, devoting herself to her as if she had 
been a little child. Her devotion was rewarded, how¬ 
ever, for one day Francesca suddenly said, “ Mamma, 
life has come back to me.” She firmly believed that 
her recovery was due to her mother’s prayers and to 
her devoted care. Gradually, Francesca resumed some 

423 


424 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 

of her old interests. She was able to compose verses 
and to have visits from her poor contadini. 

She had the great pleasure that spring of seeing 
again the old friend of her childhood, Mrs. Selden, 
(Lucy Woodbridge) who spent some time in Florence. 

When we left Florence, Aunt Lucia was ninety-six 
years old. She felt that she might never see us again, 
and talked very seriously to us of her great dread of 
leaving Francesca alone. For herself, with her deep 
religious faith, she only felt that she was going to 
rejoin loved friends. As she said to us the last 
Thanksgiving Day that we spent in Florence, when we 
found her sitting alone in her room, “ I have many 
friends with me today, but they are not of this world.” 

The morning we left Florence, we stopped early on 
our way to the station and left some flowers with Raf- 
faello for Aunt Lucia. She mentions these in the fol¬ 
lowing letter received in Genoa: 


“Florence, May 17, 1910. 

Dear Lucia: 

I was very glad of your letter and that 
all is well with you. We miss you both very 
much, but think with much pleasure of your 
visit. The great rose and the lovely moss roses 
are still fresh. F. begins to read, and walks with 
one cane. I have more hope. Our summer is 
entirely uncertain; my dear mother used to say, 
We must live one day at a time.’ We miss your 
dear selves very much, but then I was terribly 
afraid you might be ill here, where you could 
not have American comforts, and now your pros¬ 
pects are very happy, and there never was such 
devotion as May’s for you. Do write when you 


OUR LAST VISIT TO OUR AUNT 425 

can if only a few lines. Dear love to you two 
from us two. 

Your affectionate 

Aunt Lucia.’’ 

“Florence, Italy, Sept. 22,1910. 

22 Piazza Santa Maria Novella. 

Dear May: 

Many thanks for your kind letter. I 
should have thanked you for it long since, but it 
is not very easy for me to write, and for us both 
I have a world of writing to do, and none too 
much eyesight. 

Francesca has gained very slowly; it has been 
a hard experience. Now she can walk about the 
room with two canes, and her eyes can stand day¬ 
light though not sunshine, and she is composing 
some more poetry. I am sure you will like it. 
It has been hard for her and for me, but I think 
of the good woman who in some great affliction 
told her clergyman, 6 1 cannot bear it!’ and he 
answered, ‘Madam, what do you propose to do?’ 

The beautiful Madeira embroideries you gave 
us are among our greatest treasures; they are so 
exquisite. I often wish you had the same. 
Please thank dear Lily for her splendid cards 
and dear letter, only they make me feel rather 
homesick for the lovely place they represented. 

Do write to me. It will, I know, be rather 
troublesome, for I can read nothing but a rather 
large round hand; a running hand I cannot read 


426 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


at all. I know it needs time and patience, but 
I ought to be thankful, as I am, to read at all at 
ninety-six. With dear love to you each and all: 
Sam, Lucia, Lily, you, and William and Mr. 
Vinton, from us two. 

Yours affectionately, 

L. A.” 

Aunt Lucia died May 19, 1916, and our cousin was 
left alone. About a year after her death, her trustee 
wrote to my sister asking if she could go out to Flor¬ 
ence, but with our elder brother very ill in a hospital, 
it was impossible for us to go. Francesca, however, 
had some kind friends in Florence. Aunt Lucia’s dear¬ 
est friend had always been the friend of her girlhood, 
Mrs. Tucker (Margaret Chadwick). She was much in¬ 
terested in the children of the Chadwick family. 

One of Mrs. Tucker’s nephews lived in Florence, 
Mr. Isadore Braggiotti; he knew Aunt Lucia and 
Francesca intimately, and during Francesca’s last ill¬ 
ness, Mr. and Mrs. Braggiotti were most kind and at¬ 
tentive to her, going every day to inquire for her, and 
sending her milk and nice things from their estate 
outside Florence. These were real luxuries in those 
days of the war. 

Francesca died January 21, 1917. 

Our cousins, the Misses Hallowell, went out to 
Florence to arrange for a memorial to our Aunt Lucia 
and Francesca in the Allori Cemetery. They wrote us 
that Florence seemed sad to them without their 
mother and the dear Alexanders. We knew that it 
would seem sad to us, and have never yet felt like 
going there again. 

The last winter that our cousins were in Florence, 
Francesca recited to them the following verses, and 
told them that she intended to have them in a second 
volume of Hidden Servants. But that volume was 
never finished. 


THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS 

ROSE 


When the angels came from Heaven to Earth 
To bring the news of our Saviour’s birth; 

And sounded over the Bethlehem hills, 

The hymn whose echo the wide world fills. 

When the wondering shepherds heard and 
feared, 

So great the glory that then appeared, 

Beside their fire, with branches piled, 

Sat, still and tired, a little child. 

All day had she helped the sheep to tend, 

And now she was resting at the end. 

Warm and contented well was she; 

A lamb had nestled against her knee. 

And no one gave her a passing thought, 

Amid the rapture the night had brought; 

Nor dreamed that the words, by angels sung, 
Could reach the mind of a child so young. 

Yet she, like them had the story heard, 

Had listened breathless to every word; 

And when the heavenly host had gone, 

Their song in her heart went sounding on. 

And when the shepherds their journey made, 

To the poor low shed where He was laid; 

She never thought of the night so keen, 

Nor the weary miles that lay between. 

427 


428 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


But, borne along by a great desire, 

She rose from her warm seat by the fire; 

And out through the still and frosty air 
She followed on, without asking where. 

In solemn splendour the moon looked down, 

On field deserted and sleeping town; 

On silver olive and cypress grave, 

On wood that never a whisper gave; 

On the snow-topped mountains’ distant gleam, 
On the icy glaze of pool and stream. 

And nothing moved in the silence dead, 

Save the little band that forward sped. 

But, while they hasted, they did not mind, 

That the child was running on behind; 

They had not seen her, nor heard the sound, 

Of small bare feet on the frozen ground. 

And soon would she see her Lord, who lay 
So poor that night on His bed of hay! 

And so the thought had her soul inspired, 

She did not know she was cold or tired. 

And now they have found the shed they seek; 
And wait, half fearing to move or speak: 

They knew that behind that humble wall, 

The Infant lay, who was Lord of all. 

The child drew nearer, and in the shade, 

She stood concealed while the men delayed: 
And saw, what she had not seen before, 

That each in his hand an offering bore. 


LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 429 

Wrapped in his mantle and sheltered warm, 

One carried a lamb beneath his arm; 

While others had only thought to spare 
Some milk, or fruit from their own poor fare: 

Or downy fleece that was fine and white; 
Whatever came to their hand that night. 

And, as they looked on the poor array, 

She heard a man to his neighbour say: 

1 ‘ They are but little; yet, none the less, 

They may our service and love express. 
Tonight, I think it would be a sin, 

If one should go empty-handed in. ’ ’ 

Poor child, it fell on her like a blow! 

For now she thought that she must not go 
And see the Babe who had come from Heaven, 
To whom already her heart was given. 

A moment, stricken and lost she stands, 

And looks at her little empty hands, 

For she has nothing on earth at all; 

No gift to offer, however small! 

She started forward with longing keen. 

Could she not see Him, herself unseen? 

One look— just one— through the open door; 
And then, she would never ask for more. 

The shepherds entered; she saw them well, 

As silently on their knees they fell. 

She saw the shed as it looked within; 

A poorer lodging had never been! 



430 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


The bare stone wall, and the rafters low, 

But all with a warm, soft light aglow. 

And oxen, gazing with eyes intent, 

And a woman’s sweet face, downward bent. 

But the Babe Divine she had not seen, 

For the kneeling shepherds came between. 
Now, one was speaking; she thought he told 
How angels came while they watched the fold. 

And then came words she could hardly hear; 
But the gentle tone just reached her ear. 

The Mother’s welcome, as she supposed: 

A man’s low voice—and the door was closed. 

With lips that quivered, and eyes that shone, 
She stood in the moonlit street alone. 

Then, fell on the ground in trouble sore. 

And wept, as never she wept before. 

The shepherds, reverent, went their way; 
And none had noticed her where she lay, 

On the pavement cold as I have said; 

The stones were wet with the tears she shed. 

But the stones were broken here and there; 
So much of the frozen ground was bare: 

And there, wherever a tear-drop fell, 

A bud in the earth began to swell! 

As though a seed had been taking root, 

From every tear grew a pale green shoot, 
And soon in wonder she saw them rise, 

And grow to beauty beneath her eyes. 



LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE 431 

There were leaves of dark and glossy green, 
There were rosy buds that hung between; 

And flowers of soft and silvery white, 

Like the moon that shone that wintry night. 

Then came a sudden and happy thought, 

That here was the very gift she sought! 

Her heart was lightened, her weeping stilled; 
With bud and blossom her hand she filled: 

And then . . . There was neither bolt nor 

bar . . . 

She timidly pushed the door ajar. 

A breath came in of the freezing air; 

The Mother turned. . . . And what saw she 
there ? 

A little, innocent, wistful face, 

Was looking into that holy place, 

With eyes where the tears were not yet dry; 
While one small hand held the flowers on high. 

Then the Mother took her hand, and led 
The happy child to her Infant’s bed. 

And who so blessed as that little maid, 

When down on His side her flowers she laid! 

And every year at the Christmas time, 

When the bells ring out their midnight chime, 
When summer blossoms lie dry and dead, 

And frost shines white on the garden bed . . . 

When the poor on earth are helped and cheered, 
For love of Him who that night appeared, 

In cold and poverty for our sake, 

That we might all of His wealth partake. 


432 MEMOIRS OF THE ALEXANDERS 


When hearts are warm, and when air is chill, 
The child’s white flowers are blooming still; 
And tell the story, through changing years, 

Of her who could offer only tears. 

“ Written for the beloved Mammina, by the 
one who loves her best, Christmas Day, 1904.” 















Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: May 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 





OCT 2 6 1931 






























































































































































